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thing of the man’s history.
’ HE! HE! What name do you call him by? You only say
HE,’ said Hilda.
’I’ve never called him by any name: nor he me: which is
curious, when you come to think of it. Unless we say Lady
Jane and John Thomas. But his name is Oliver Mellors.’
’And how would you like to be Mrs Oliver Mellors, in-
stead of Lady Chatterley?’
’I’d love it.’
There was nothing to be done with Connie. And anyhow,
if the man had been a lieutenant in the army in India for
four or five years, he must be more or less presentable. Ap-
parently he had character. Hilda began to relent a little.
’But you’ll be through with him in awhile,’ she said, ‘and
then you’ll be ashamed of having been connected with him.
One CAN’T mix up with the working people.’
’But you are such a socialist! you’re always on the side of
the working classes.’
’I may be on their side in a political crisis, but being on
their side makes me know how impossible it is to mix one’s
life with theirs. Not out of snobbery, but just because the
whole rhythm is different.’
Hilda had lived among the real political intellectuals, so
she was disastrously unanswerable.
The nondescript evening in the hotel dragged out, and at
last they had a nondescript dinner. Then Connie slipped a
few things into a little silk bag, and combed her hair once
more.
’After all, Hilda,’ she said, ‘love can be wonderful: when