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flamed in her for a time, and the man dwindled to a con-
temptible object, the mere phallos-bearer, to be torn to
pieces when his service was performed. She felt the force of
the Bacchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleam-
ing and rapid, beating down the male; but while she felt this,
her heart was heavy. She did not want it, it was known and
barren, birthless; the adoration was her treasure.
It was so fathomless, so soft, so deep and so unknown.
No, no, she would give up her hard bright female power;
she was weary of it, stiffened with it; she would sink in the
new bath of life, in the depths of her womb and her bowels
that sang the voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet to
begin to fear the man.
’I walked over by Marehay, and I had tea with Mrs Flint,’
she said to Clifford. ‘I wanted to see the baby. It’s so ador-
able, with hair like red cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr Flint had
gone to market, so she and I and the baby had tea together.
Did you wonder where I was?’
’Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in
somewhere to tea,’ said Clifford jealously. With a sort of
second sight he sensed something new in her, something to
him quite incomprehensible, hut he ascribed it to the baby.
He thought that all that ailed Connie was that she did not
have a baby, automatically bring one forth, so to speak.
’I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my Lady,’
said Mrs Bolton; ‘so I thought perhaps you’d called at the
Rectory.’
’I nearly did, then I turned towards Marehay instead.’
The eyes of the two women met: Mrs Bolton’s grey and

1 Lady Chatterly’s Lover