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ish house in a row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a
rather good-looking woman of forty-odd, in a nurse’s uni-
form, with a white collar and apron, just making herself tea
in a small crowded sitting-room.
Mrs Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite
nice, spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct
English, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good
many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair
amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the
governing class in the village, very much respected.
’Yes, Lady Chatterley’s not looking at all well! Why, she
used to be that bonny, didn’t she now? But she’s been failing
all winter! Oh, it’s hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war,
it’s a lot to answer for.’
And Mrs Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr
Shardlow would let her off. She had another fortnight’s par-
ish nursing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute,
you know.
Hilda posted off to Dr Shardlow, and on the following
Sunday Mrs Bolton drove up in Leiver’s cab to Wragby with
two trunks. Hilda had talks with her; Mrs Bolton was ready
at any moment to talk. And she seemed so young! The way
the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. She was
forty-seven.
Her husband, Ted Bolton, had been killed in the pit,
twenty-two years ago, twenty-two years last Christmas,
just at Christmas time, leaving her with two children, one
a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, Edith, to a
young man in Boots Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The oth-

11 Lady Chatterly’s Lover