"You mean you'll stay on in Paris a while?"
"No! I mean never go back to Wragby."
He was bothered by his own little problems, and sincerely hoped he was getting none of hers to shoulder.
"How's that, all at once?" he asked.
"I'm going to have a child."
It was the first time she had uttered the words to any living soul, and it seemed to mark a cleavage in her life.
"How do you know?" said her father.
She smiled.
"How should I know!"
"But not Clifford's child, of course?"
"No! Another man's."
She rather enjoyed tormenting him.
"Do I know the man?" asked Sir Malcolm.
"No! You've never seen him."
There was a long pause.
"And what are your plans?"
"I don't know. That's the point."
"No patching it up with Clifford?"
"I suppose Clifford would take it," said Connie. "He told me, after last time you talked to him, he wouldn't mind if I had a child: so long as I went about it discreetly."
"Only sensible thing he could say, under the circumstances. Then I suppose it'll be all right."
"In what way?" said Connie, looking into her father's eyes. They were big blue eyes rather like her own, but with a certain uneasiness in them, a look sometimes of an uneasy little boy, sometimes a look of sullen selfishness, usually good-humoured and wary.
"You can present Clifford with an heir to all the Chatterleys, and put another baronet in Wragby."
Sir Malcolm's face smiled with a half-sensual smile.
"But I don't think I want to," she said.
"Why not? Feeling entangled with the other man? Well! If you want the truth from me, my child, it's this. The world goes on. Wragby stands and will go on standing. The world is more or less a fixed thing, and externally, we have to adapt ourselves to it. Privately, in my private opinion, we can please ourselves. Emotions
