but a baby with a queer temper and a fine manner and power in its control,
and all sorts of odd knowledge that she had never dreamed of, with which he
could still bully her.
Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:
`For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that woman!'
But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it, in the long run.
It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten
o'clock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript.
But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts. But she
still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs Bolton would do even
that.
For Connie had suggested to Mrs Bolton that she should learn to use a
typewriter. And Mrs Bolton, always ready, had begun at once, and practised
assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and
she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly. And he was very
patient, spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in
French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to instruct her.
Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for going up
to her room after dinner.
`Perhaps Mrs Bolton will play piquet with you,' she said to Clifford.
`Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room and rest,
darling.'
But no sooner had she gone, than he rang for Mrs Bolton, and asked her
to take a hand at piquet or bezique, or even chess. He had taught her all
these games. And Connie found it curiously objectionable to see Mrs Bolton,
flushed and tremulous like a little girl, touching her queen or her knight
with uncertain fingers, then drawing away again. And Clifford, faintly
smiling with a half-teasing superiority, saying to her:
`You must say j'adoube!'
She looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then murmured shyly,
obediently:
`J'adoube!'
Yes, he was educating her. And he enjoyed it, it gave him a sense of
power. And she was thrilled. She was coming bit by bit into possession of
all that the gentry knew, all that made them upper class: apart from the
money. That thrilled her. And at the same time, she was making him want to
have her there with him. It was a subtle deep flattery to him, her genuine
thrill.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours: a
little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. Ivy Bolton's
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