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bright and searching; Connie’s blue and veiled and strange-
ly beautiful. Mrs Bolton was almost sure she had a lover,
yet how could it be, and who could it be? Where was there
a man?
’Oh, it’s so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of
company sometimes,’ said Mrs Bolton. ‘I was saying to Sir
Clifford, it would do her ladyship a world of good if she’d go
out among people more.’
’Yes, I’m glad I went, and such a quaint dear cheeky baby,
Clifford,’ said Connie. ‘It’s got hair just like spider-webs,
and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue chi-
na eyes. Of course it’s a girl, or it wouldn’t be so bold, bolder
than any little Sir Francis Drake.’
’You’re right, my Lady—a regular little Flint. They were
always a forward sandy-headed family,’ said Mrs Bolton.
’Wouldn’t you like to see it, Clifford? I’ve asked them to
tea for you to see it.’
’Who?’ he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness.
‘Mrs Flint and the baby, next Monday.’
’You can have them to tea up in your room,’ he said.
’Why, don’t you want to see the baby?’ she cried.
’Oh, I’ll see it, but I don’t want to sit through a tea-time
with them.’
’Oh,’ cried Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.
She did not really see him, he was somebody else.
’You can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my Lady,
and Mrs Flint will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford
was there,’ said Mrs Bolton.
She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her

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