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He
was
remotely
interested
;
but
like
a
man
looking
down
a
microscope
,
or
up
a
telescope
.
He
was
not
in
touch
.
He
was
not
in
actual
touch
with
anybody
,
save
,
traditionally
,
with
Wragby
,
and
,
through
the
close
bond
of
family
defence
,
with
Emma
.
Beyond
this
nothing
really
touched
him
.
Connie
felt
that
she
herself
didn
’
t
really
,
not
really
touch
him
;
perhaps
there
was
nothing
to
get
at
ultimately
;
just
a
negation
of
human
contact
.
Yet
he
was
absolutely
dependent
on
her
,
he
needed
her
every
moment
.
Big
and
strong
as
he
was
,
he
was
helpless
.
He
could
wheel
himself
about
in
a
wheeled
chair
,
and
he
had
a
sort
of
bath
-
chair
with
a
motor
attachment
,
in
which
he
could
puff
slowly
round
the
park
.
But
alone
he
was
like
a
lost
thing
.
He
needed
Connie
to
be
there
,
to
assure
him
he
existed
at
all
.
Still
he
was
ambitious
.
He
had
taken
to
writing
stories
;
curious
,
very
personal
stories
about
people
he
had
known
.
Clever
,
rather
spiteful
,
and
yet
,
in
some
mysterious
way
,
meaningless
.
The
observation
was
extraordinary
and
peculiar
.
But
there
was
no
touch
,
no
actual
contact
.
It
was
as
if
the
whole
thing
took
place
in
a
vacuum
.
And
since
the
field
of
life
is
largely
an
artificially
-
lighted
stage
today
,
the
stories
were
curiously
true
to
modern
life
,
to
the
modern
psychology
,
that
is
.
Clifford
was
almost
morbidly
sensitive
about
these
stories
.
He
wanted
everyone
to
think
them
good
,
of
the
best
,
ne
plus
ultra
.
They
appeared
in
the
most
modern
magazines
,
and
were
praised
and
blamed
as
usual
.
But
to
Clifford
the
blame
was
torture
,
like
knives
goading
him
.
It
was
as
if
the
whole
of
his
being
were
in
his
stories
.
Connie
helped
him
as
much
as
she
could
.
At
first
she
was
thrilled
.
He
talked
everything
over
with
her
monotonously
,
insistently
,
persistently
,
and
she
had
to
respond
with
all
her
might
.
It
was
as
if
her
whole
soul
and
body
and
sex
had
to
rouse
up
and
pass
into
theme
stories
of
his
.
This
thrilled
her
and
absorbed
her
.
Of
physical
life
they
lived
very
little
.
She
had
to
superintend
the
house
.
But
the
housekeeper
had
served
Sir
Geoffrey
for
many
years
,
and
the
dried
-
up
,
elderly
,
superlatively
correct
female
you
could
hardly
call
her
a
parlour
-
maid
,
or
even
a
woman
.
.
.
who
waited
at
table
,
had
been
in
the
house
for
forty
years
.
Even
the
very
housemaids
were
no
longer
young
.
It
was
awful
!
What
could
you
do
with
such
a
place
,
but
leave
it
alone
!
All
these
endless
rooms
that
nobody
used
,
all
the
Midlands
routine
,
the
mechanical
cleanliness
and
the
mechanical
order
!
Clifford
had
insisted
on
a
new
cook
,
an
experienced
woman
who
had
served
him
in
his
rooms
in
London
.
For
the
rest
the
place
seemed
run
by
mechanical
anarchy
.
Everything
went
on
in
pretty
good
order
,
strict
cleanliness
,
and
strict
punctuality
;
even
pretty
strict
honesty
.
And
yet
,
to
Connie
,
it
was
a
methodical
anarchy
.
No
warmth
of
feeling
united
it
organically
.
The
house
seemed
as
dreary
as
a
disused
street
.
What
could
she
do
but
leave
it
alone
?
So
she
left
it
alone
.
Miss
Chatterley
came
sometimes
,
with
her
aristocratic
thin
face
,
and
triumphed
,
finding
nothing
altered
.
She
would
never
forgive
Connie
for
ousting
her
from
her
union
in
consciousness
with
her
brother
.
It
was
she
,
Emma
,
who
should
be
bringing
forth
the
stories
,
these
books
,
with
him
;
the
Chatterley
stories
,
something
new
in
the
world
,
that
they
,
the
Chatterleys
,
had
put
there
.
There
was
no
other
standard
.
There
was
no
organic
connexion
with
the
thought
and
expression
that
had
gone
before
.
Only
something
new
in
the
world
:
the
Chatterley
books
,
entirely
personal
.
Connie
’
s
father
,
where
he
paid
a
flying
visit
to
Wragby
,
and
in
private
to
his
daughter
:
As
for
Clifford
’
s
writing
,
it
’
s
smart
,
but
there
’
s
nothing
in
it
.
It
won
’
t
last
!
Connie
looked
at
the
burly
Scottish
knight
who
had
done
himself
well
all
his
life
,
and
her
eyes
,
her
big
,
still
-
wondering
blue
eyes
became
vague
.
