Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of 1920. Miss Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defection, had departed and was living in a little flat in London.
Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about the middle of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a place without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in a rather line old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near distance the chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and smoke, and on the damp, hazy distance of the hill the raw straggle of Tevershall village, a village which began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness.

Connie was accustomed to Kensington or the Scotch hills or the Sussex downs: that was her England. With the stoicism of the young she took in the utter, soulless ugliness of the coal-and-iron Midlands at a glance, and left it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about. From the rather dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle-rattle of the screens at the pit, the puff of the winding-engine, the clink-clink of shunting trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomotives. Tevershall pit-bank was burning, had been burning for years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. So it had to burn. And when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the earth's excrement. But even on windless days the air always smelt of something under-earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. And even on the Christmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from the skies of doom.

Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful, but why kick? You couldn't kick it away. It just went on. Life, like all the rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain. It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie with a sort of horror; she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. And in the morning it rained.

Clifford professed to like Wragby better than London. This country had a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious.

There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor-car up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome.

There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village, none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared; the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an acquaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf impassable, and a quiet sort of resentment on either side. At first Connie suffered from the steady drizzle of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps nonexistent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity.

Yet the village sympathized with Clifford and Connie in the abstract. In the flesh it was---You leave me alone!---on either side.

The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent---You leave me alone!---of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying concern.

This stubborn, instinctive---We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!---puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of---Oh dear me! I am somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as her for all that!---which she always heard twanging in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.

Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wax figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty and contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. And he was neither liked nor disliked by the people: he was just part of things, like the pit-bank and Wragby itself.

But Clifford was really extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed. He hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants. For he had to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair. Nevertheless he was just as carefully dressed as ever, by his expensive tailors, and he wore the careful Bond Street neckties just as before, and from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever. He had never been one of the modern ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy face and broad shoulders. But his very quiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His manner was often offensively supercilious, and then again modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous.

Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. He was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and flippant. He was a hurt thing. And as such Connie stuck to him passionately.

But she could not help feeling how little connexion he really had with people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men; but he saw them as objects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw phenomena rather than human beings along with him. He was in some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame. And their queer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs.

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, arid 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. Nothing in it! What did he mean by nothing in it? If the critics praised it, and Clifford's name was almost famous, and it even brought in money...what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in Clifford's writing? What else could there be?

For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another.

It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: `I hope, Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a demi-vierge.'

`A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. `Why? Why not?'

`Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'm afraid it doesn't quite suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'

`A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of it.

He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and offended.

`In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.

`She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'

`Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.

He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge business...the half-virgin state of her affairs. But he could not bring himself to do it. He was at once too intimate with her and not intimate enough. He was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but bodily they were non-existent to one another, and neither could bear to drag in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch.

Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely know, and wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.

Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really happening, really in the void.

And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not really existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldn't last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality.

Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood it all perfectly. But why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong with it?

She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy, country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was considered a little old-fashioned and `womanly'. She was not a `little pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast and little buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.

So the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her indeed. But, knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. She was quiet and vague, she had no contact with them and intended to have none. Clifford was extraordinarily proud of himself.

His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connexion with them.

Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his books. She entertained...there were always people in the house. Time went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.

一九二零年的秋天，康妮和克利福回勒格贝老家来，爱玛因为仍然憎恶她弟弟的失信，已到伦敦租了间小房子住去下。

勒格贝是个褐色石筑的长而低的老屋。建筑于十八世纪中期，后来时加添补，直至成了一座无甚出色的大房屋，它坐落在一高丘上，在一个够优美的满是橡树的老林园中。可惜得很，从这儿看见附近煤矿场的烟雾成云的烟囱，和远处湿雾朦胧中的小山上的达娃斯哈村落，这村落差不多挨着园门开始，极其丑恶地蔓延一里之长，一行行的寒酸肌脏的砖墙小屋，黑石板的屋顶，尖锐的屋角，带着无限悲他的气概。

康妮是住惯了根新洞，看惯了苏格兰的小山，和苏色克斯的海岸沙丘的人，那便是她心目中的英格兰，她用年轻的忍耐精神，把这无灵魂的、丑恶的煤铁区的米德兰浏览了一遍，便撇开不顾了，那是令人难信的可怕的环境，是不必加以思索的。以勒格贝那些阴森的房屋里，她听得见矿坑里筛子机的轹轹声，起重机的喷气声。载重车换轨时的响声，和火车头粗哑的汽笛声。达娃斯哈的煤堤在燃烧着，已经燃烧好几年了，要熄灭它非一宗大款不可，所以只好任它烧着。风从那边吹来的时候——这是常事——屋里便充满了腐土经焚烧后的硫磺臭味。甚至无风的时候，空气里也带着一种地窖下的什么恶味。甚至在毛黄花上，也铺着一层煤灰，好象是恶天降下的黑甘露。

然而，世事就是这样，一切都是命定的！这是有点可怕的，但是为什么要反抗呢？反抗是无用的，事情还是一样继续下去。这便是生活，和其它一切一样！在晚上，那低低的黝黑的云天，浮动着一些斑斑的红点，肿涨着，收缩着，好象令人痛苦的火伤；那是煤地的一些高炉。起初，这种景色使康妮深深恐怖，她觉得自己生活在地窖里。以后，她渐渐习惯了。早晨的时候，天又下起雨来。

克利福自称勒格贝比伦敦可爱。这地方有一种特有的坚强的意志，居民有一种强大的欲望，康妮奇怪着，他们除此以外，还有什么尝试的东西。无论如何，见解和思想他们是没有的。这些居民和这地方一样，形容枯搞，丑陋，阴森而不和睦。不过在他们的含糊不清的土话里和他们在沥青路上曳着钉底鞍。一群一群的散工回家时候的嘈杂声里，却有些什么可怕而有点神秘的东西。

当这年轻的贵族归家时，谁也没有来欢迎他。没有宴会，没有代表，甚至一朵花也没有。只是当他的汽车在阴森的林中的潮湿空气里开过，经过那有些灰色绵羊在那里吃着草的园圃斜坡，来到那高丘上黑褐色的屋门前时，一个女管家和她的丈夫在那里等着，预备支吾几句欢迎的话。

勒格贝和达娃斯哈村落是毫无来往的。村里人见了他们，也不脱帽，也不鞠躬。矿工们见了只是眼睁地望着。商人见了康妮举举帽子，和对一个任何熟人一样，对克利福相通的深渊，双方都抱着一种沉静的仇恨。起初，康妮对于村人这种淫雨似的下个不尽的仇恨，很觉痛苦。后来她忍耐下来了，反而觉得那是一服强身剂，是予人以一种生趣的什么东西，这并不是因为她和克利福不孚众望，仅仅是因为他们和矿工是完全不同的两种人罢了。在特兰以南的地方，这种人与人之间的极端隔绝也许是不存在的。但是在中部和北部的工业区，他们间的隔绝是言语所难形容的。你走你的。我走我的！奇怪的相克的人类感情！

虽然，在无形中，村人对于克利福和康妮还有点同情，但是在骨子里，双方都抱着“别管我们罢”的态度。

这儿的牧师，是个勤于职务的约模六十岁的和蔼的人。村人的“别管我们罢”的无言态度把他克服了，差不多成了无足轻重的人物，矿工的妻子们几乎都是监理会教徒，面矿工们却是无所信仰的，但是即使这牧师所穿的那套制服，也就够使村人把他看成一个异常的人了。是的，他是个异常的人，他是亚士比先生，一种传道和祈祷的机械。

“管你是什么查太莱男爵夫人，我们并不输你！”村人的这种固执的本能的态度，起初是很使康妮十分不安而沮丧的。当她对矿工的妻子们表示好感的时候，她们那种奇怪的、猜疑的、虚伪的亲热，使她不觉得真难忍受。她常常听见这些女人们用着半阿谀的鼻音说：“啊！别小看我，查太莱男爵夫人和我说话来着呢！可是她却不必以为因此我便不如此！”这种奇异的冒犯的态度，也使康妮觉得怪难忍受。这是不能避免的。这些都是不可救药的离叛国教的人。

克利福并不留心他们，康妮也不学样。她经过村里时，目不旁视，村人呆望着她，好象她是会走的蜡人一样。当克利福有事和他们交谈的时候，他的态度是很高傲的，很轻蔑的，这不是讲亲爱的时候了，事实上，他对于任何不是同一阶级的人，总是很傲慢而轻蔑的。坚守着他的地位，一点也不想与人修好。他们不喜欢他。也不讨厌他，他只是世事的一部分，象煤矿场和勒格贝屋予一样。

但是自从半躯残废以来，克利福实在是很胆怯的。他除了自己的仆人外，谁也不愿见。因为他得坐在轮椅或小车里，可是他的高价的裁缝师，依旧把他穿得怪讲究的。他和往日一样，系着帮德街买来的讲究的领带。他的上半截和从前一样的时髦动人。他一向就没有近代青年们的那种女性模样；他的红润的脸色，阔大的肩膊，反而有牧人的粗壮神气。但是他的宁静而犹豫的声音，和他的勇敢却又惧怕，果断却又疑惑的眼睛，却显示着他的天真性。他的态度常常起初是敌对地傲慢的，跟着又谦逊、自卑而几乎畏缩下来。

康妮和他互相依恋，但和近代夫妻一样，各自守着相当的距离。他因为终身残废的打击，给他的内心的刨伤过重，所以失去了他的轻快和自然，他是个负伤的人，因此康妮热情地怜爱他。

但是康妮总觉得他和民间的来往太少了。矿工们在某种意义上是他的用人，但是在他看来，他们是物件，而不是人；他们是煤矿的一部分，而不是生命的一部分；他们是一些粗卑的怪物，而不是象他自己一样的人类。在某种情境上，他却惧怕他们，怕他们看见自己的这种残废。他们的奇怪的粗鄙的生活，在他看来，仿佛象刺猖的生活一样反乎自然。

他远远地关心着他们，象一个人在显微镜里或望远镜里望着一样。他和他们是没有直接接触的。除了因为习惯关系和勒格贝接触。因为家族关系和爱玛接触外，他和谁也没有真正的接触。什么也不能真正接触他。康妮自己也觉得没有真正地接触他。也许他根本就没有什么可以接触的东西，他是否定人类的交接的。

然而他是绝对地依赖于她的，他是无时无刻不需要她的。他虽魁伟壮健，可是却不能自己照顾自己，他虽可以坐在轮椅里把自己滚来滚去，他虽有一种小自动车，可以到林园里慢慢地兜兜圈子，但是独自的时候，他便象个无主宰的东西了。他需要康妮在一块，以使他相信自己是生存着的。

可是他是雄心勃勃的。他写些小说，写些关于他所知道的人的奇怪特别的小说。这些小说写得又刁又巧，又恶辣，可是神秘得没有什么深意。他的观察是异于常人的，奇特的，可是却没有使人能接触、能真正地接触的东西。一切都好象在虚无缥缈中发生。而且，因为我们今日的生活场面大都是人工地照亮起来的一个舞台，所以他的小说都是怪忠实于现代化生活的。说恰切些，是怪忠实现代心理的。

克利福对于他的小说毁誊，差不多是病态地易感的。他要人人都说他的小说好，是无出其右的最上作品。他的小说都在最摩登的杂志上发表，因此照例地受人赞美和非难。但是非难于克利福。是如刀刺肉般的酷刑。仿佛他的生命都在他的小说里。

康妮极力地帮助他。起初，她觉得很兴奋，他单调地、坚持地给她解说一切的事情，她得用全力去回答和了解。仿佛她整个的灵魂、肉体和性欲都得苏醒而穿过他的小说里。这使她兴奋而忘我。

他们的物质生活是很少的。她得监督家务。那多年服侍过佐佛来男爵的女管家是个干枯了的毫无苟且的老东西。她不但不象个女仆，连女人都不象。她在这里侍候餐事已经四十年了。就是其他的女仆也不年轻了。真可怖！在这样的地方，你除了听其自然以外；还有什么法子呢？所有这些数不尽的无人住的空房子，所有这些德米兰的习惯，机械式的整齐清洁！一切都很的秩序地、很清洁地、很精密地、甚至很真正的进行着。然而在康妮看来，这只是有秩序的无政府状态罢了。那儿并没有感情的热力的互相联系。整处屋子阴森得象一条冷清的街道。

她除了听其自然以外，还有什么方法？……于是她便听其自然了。爱玛·查太莱小姐，脸孔清瘦而傲慢，有时也上这儿来看望他们。看见一切都没有变动，觉得很是得意。她永远不能宽恕康妮，因为康妮拆散了她和她弟弟的深切的团结。是她——爱玛，才应该帮助克利福写他的小说，写他的书的。查太莱的小说，‘世界上一种新颖的东西，由他们姓查泰莱的人经手产生出来。这和从前的思想言论，是毫无共通，毫无有机的联系的。世界上只有查太莱的书，是新颖的，纯粹地个人的。

康妮的父亲，当他到勒格贝作短促的逗留的时候，对康妮说：“克利福的作品是巧妙的，但是底子里空无一物。那是不能长久的！……”康妮望着这老于世故的魁伟的苏格兰的老爵士，她的眼睛，她的两只老是惊异的蓝色的大眼睛，变得模糊起来。“空无一物！”这是什么意思？批评家们赞美他的作品，克利福差不多要出名了，而且他的作品还能赚一笔钱呢。……她的父亲却说克利福的作品空无一物，这是什么意思？他要他的作品里有什么东西？

因为康妮的观点是和一般青年一样的：眼前便是一切，将来与现在的相接，是不必彼此相属的。

那是她在勒格贝的第二个冬天了，她的父亲对她说：

“康妮，我希望你不要因环境的关系而守活寡。”

“守活寡！为什么呢？为什么不呢？”康妮漠然地答道。

“除非你愿意，那便没有话说了！”她的父亲忙说。

当他和克利福在一起而没有旁人的时候，他把同样的话对他说：

“我恐怕守活寡的生活不太适合康妮。”

“活活守寡！”克利福答道，把这短语讲得更明确了。

他沉思了一会后，脸孔通红起来，发怒了。

“怎么不适合她？”他强硬会问道。

“她渐渐地清瘦了……憔悴了。这并不是她一向的样子。她并不象那瘦小的沙丁，她是动人的苏格兰白鲈鱼。”

“毫无斑点的自鲈鱼，当然了！”，克利福说。

过后，他想把守活寡这桩事对康妮谈谈。但是他总不能开口。他和她同时是太亲密而又不够亲密了，在精神上，他们是合一的；但在肉体上，他们是隔绝的；关于肉体事件的讨论，两人都要觉得难堪。他们是太亲密了同时又太疏远了。

然而康妮却猜出了她的父亲对无利福说过了什么，而克利福缄默地把它守在心里，她知道，她是否守活寡，或是与人私通，克利福是不关切的，只要他不确切地知道，和不必一定去知道。眼所不见，心所不知的事情，是不存在的。

康妮和克利福在勒格贝差不多两年了，他们度着一种漠然地生活，全神贯注在克利福和他的著作上。他们对于这种工作的共同兴趣不断的浓厚。他们谈论着，争执着行文结构，仿佛在那空虚之中有什么东西在发生，在真正发生似的。

他们已在共同工作着，这便是生活——一种空虚中的生活。

除此之外，其他一切都不存在了。勒格贝，仆人们……都是些鬼影。而不是现实。康妮也常到园和与园圃相连的林中去散步，欣赏着那里的孤僻和神秘，脚踢着秋天和落叶，或采摘着春天的莲馨花。这一切都是梦，真实的幻影。橡树的叶子，在她看来，仿佛是镜子里摇动着的叶子，她自己是书本里的人物，采着莲馨花，而这些花儿也不过是些影子，或是记忆，或是一些宇。她觉得什么也没有，没有实质，没有接触，没有联系！只有这与克利福的共同生活，只有这些无穷无尽的长谈和心理分析，只有这些麦尔肯爵士所谓的底子里一无所有而不能长久的小说。为什么底子里要有什么东西？为什么要传之久远？我们始且得过且过，直至不能再过之日。我们姑且得过且过，直至现在“出现”之日。

克利福的朋友——实际上只是些相识——很不少，他常把他们请到勒格贝来。他请的是各种各样的人，批评家，著作家，一些颂赞他的作品的人们。这些人都觉得被请到勒格贝来是荣幸的，于是他们歌颂他。康妮心里明白这一切，为什么不呢？这是镜中游影之一。她并不觉得有什么不好的地方。

她款待着这些客人——其中大部分是些男子。她也款待着克利福的不常来的贵族亲戚们。因为她长得温柔，脸色红润而带村对的风态，有着那易生色斑的嫩自的皮肤，大大的蓝眼睛，褐色卷发，温和的声音和微嫌坚强的腰部。所以人家把她看成一个不太时髦，而太“妇人”的女子。她并不是男孩似的象一条“小沙丁鱼”，她胸部扁平，臀部细小。她太女性了，所以不能十分时髦。

因此男子们，尤其是年纪不轻的男子们，都对她很献殷勤。他是，她知道如果她对他们稍微表示一点轻桃，那便要使可怜的克利福深感痛苦，所以她从不让这些男子们胆大起来。她守关那闲静而淡漠的态度，她和他们毫无密交，而且毫无这个意思。因此克利福是觉得非常自得的。

克利福的亲戚们，对她也很和蔼。她知道这种和蔼的原因，是因为她不使人惧怕。她也知道，如果你不使这些人有点怕你，他们是不会尊敬你的。但是她和他们也是毫无密交。她接受他们的和蔼和轻蔑，她让他们知道用不着剑拨弩张。她和他们是毫无真正的关系的。

时间便是这样过着。无论有了什么事。都象不是真正地’有那么回事，因为她和一切是太没有接触了。她和克利福在他们的理想里，在他们的著作里生活着。她款待着客人……家里是常常有客的。时间象钟一样地进行着，七点半过了是八点，八点过了是几点半。