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At the foot of Chatterley Wood the canal wound in large curves on its way towards the undefiled plains of Cheshire and the sea. On the canal-side, exactly opposite to Hilda's window, was a flour-mill, that sometimes made nearly as much smoke as the kilns and chimneys closing the prospect on either hand.
I knew a man once Chatterley was his name, Shropshire his county, and racing his occupation who said that a snob was blamed for the offence he gave to Lords themselves.
Sophia was now alone with Mr. Scales, for in order to discuss the unnameable freely with Mrs. Chatterley her sister was edging up the counter. Sophia had dreamed of a private conversation as something delicious and impossible. But chance had favoured her. She was alone with him. And his neat fair hair and his blue eyes and his delicate mouth were as wonderful to her as ever.
From the window of her bedroom, at the front of the house, Hilda looked westwards up toward the slopes of Chatterley Wood, where as a child she used to go with other children to pick the sparse bluebells that thrived on smoke. The bailiwick of Turnhill lay behind her; and all the murky district of the Five Towns, of which Turnhill is the northern outpost, lay to the south.
She shook her head. "I don't think I shall go to-day. It's too cold. I don't think I shall venture out to-day." "You must be very fond of reading," said he. Then Mr. Povey appeared, rubbing his mittened hands. And Mrs. Chatterley went. "I'll run and fetch mother," said Constance. Mrs. Baines was very polite to the young man.
"Miss Constance, can you spare a minute?" the assistant whispered discreetly. Constance extinguished her smile for Mr. Scales, and, turning away, lighted an entirely different and inferior smile for the customer. "Good morning, Miss Baines. Very cold, isn't it?" "Good morning, Mrs. Chatterley. Yes, it is. I suppose you're getting anxious about those " Constance stopped.
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