“Well—­are you going there now?  I can take you if you wish for a lift.”

Her olive complexion grew richer in hue.

“Thank ’ee, Mr Clare,” she said.

He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and the few other items which had to be considered by reason of the sudden abandonment of the lodgings.  On Clare’s return to his horse and gig, Izz jumped up beside him.

“I am going to leave England, Izz,” he said, as they drove on.  “Going to Brazil.”

“And do Mrs Clare like the notion of such a journey?” she asked.

“She is not going at present—­say for a year or so.  I am going out to reconnoitre—­to see what life there is like.”

They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making no observation.

“How are the others?” he inquired.  “How is Retty?”

“She was in a sort of nervous state when I zid her last; and so thin and hollow-cheeked that ’a do seem in a decline.  Nobody will ever fall in love wi’ her any more,” said Izz absently.

“And Marian?”

Izz lowered her voice.

“Marian drinks.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.  The dairyman has got rid of her.”

“And you!”

“I don’t drink, and I bain’t in a decline.  But—­I am no great things at singing afore breakfast now!”

“How is that?  Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ’’Twas down in Cupid’s Gardens’ and ‘The Tailor’s Breeches’ at morning milking?”

“Ah, yes!  When you first came, sir, that was.  Not when you had been there a bit.”

“Why was that falling-off?”

Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of answer.

“Izz!—­how weak of you—­for such as I!” he said, and fell into reverie.  “Then—­suppose I had asked YOU to marry me?”

“If you had I should have said ‘Yes’, and you would have married a woman who loved ’ee!”

“Really!”

“Down to the ground!” she whispered vehemently.  “O my God! did you never guess it till now!”

By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village.

“I must get down.  I live out there,” said Izz abruptly, never having spoken since her avowal.

Clare slowed the horse.  He was incensed against his fate, bitterly disposed towards social ordinances; for they had cooped him up in a corner, out of which there was no legitimate pathway.  Why not be revenged on society by shaping his future domesticities loosely, instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this ensnaring manner?

“I am going to Brazil alone, Izz,” said he.  “I have separated from my wife for personal, not voyaging, reasons.  I may never live with her again.  I may not be able to love you; but—­will you go with me instead of her?”

“You truly wish me to go?”

“I do.  I have been badly used enough to wish for relief.  And you at least love me disinterestedly.”