"As you like."
Mellors slung into his coat, looked at Connie, saluted, and was gone. Connie, furious, went upstairs.
At lunch she could not contain her feeling.
"Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, Clifford?" she said to him.
"Of whom?"
"Of the keeper! If that is what you call the ruling classes, I'm sorry for you."
"Why?"
"A man who's been ill, and isn't strong! My word, if I were the serving classes, I'd let you wait for service. I'd let you whistle."
"I quite believe it."
"If he'd been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you have done for him?"
"My dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in bad taste."
"And your nasty, sterile want of common sympathy is in the worst taste imaginable. Noblesse Oblige! You and your ruling class!"
"And to what should it oblige me? To have a lot of unnecessary emotions about my gamekeeper? I refuse. I leave it all to my evangelist."
"As if he weren't a man as much as you are, my word!"
"My gamekeeper to boot, and I pay him two pounds a week and give him a house."
"Pay him! What do you think you pay for, with two pounds a week and a house?"
"His services."
"Bah! I would tell you to keep your two pounds a week and your house."
"Probably he would like to: but can't afford the luxury!"
"You, and rule!" she said. "You don't rule, don't flatter yourself. You have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation. Rule! What do you give forth of rule? Why you're dried up! You only bully with your money, like any Jew or any Schieber!"
"You are very elegant in your speech, Lady Chatterley!"
