Lady Chatterley’s Lover. D. H. Lawrence
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‘he might almost be a gentleman.’
‘Might he?’ said Clifford. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘But isn’t there something special about him?’ Connie insisted.
‘I think he’s quite a nice fellow, but I know very little about him. He only came out of the army last year, less than a year ago. From India, I rather think. He may have picked up certain tricks out there, perhaps he was an officer’s servant, and improved on his position. Some of the men were like that. But it does them no good, they have to fall back into their old places when they get home again.’
Connie gazed at Clifford contemplatively. She saw in him the peculiar tight rebuff against anyone of the lower classes who might be really climbing up, which she knew was characteristic of his breed.
‘But don’t you think there is something special about him?’ she asked.
‘Frankly, no! Nothing I had noticed.’
He looked at her curiously, uneasily, half-suspiciously. And she felt he wasn’t telling her the real truth; he wasn’t telling himself the real truth, that was it. He disliked any suggestion of a really exceptional human being. People must be more or less at his level, or below it.
Connie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of her generation. They were so tight, so scared of life!
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