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Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr. Clare also stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed. When she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak.

‘Don’t they look pretty?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Izzy Huett and Retty.’

Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer’s wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure her own wretched charms.

‘Pretty? Well, yes—they are pretty girls—fresh-looking. I have often thought so.’

‘Though, poor dears, prettiness won’t last long!’

‘Oh no, unfortunately.’

‘They be excellent dairywomen.’

‘Yes; though not better than you.’

‘They skim better than I.’

‘Do they?’

Clare remained observing them—not without their observing him.