“Yes, to-morrow—­Old Lady Day.”

“I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden.  Why is it?”

“Father’s was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we had no further right to stay.  Though we might, perhaps, have stayed as weekly tenants—­if it had not been for me.”

“What about you?”

“I am not a—­proper woman.”

D’Urberville’s face flushed.

“What a blasted shame!  Miserable snobs!  May their dirty souls be burnt to cinders!” he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.  “That’s why you are going, is it?  Turned out?”

“We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are better chances.”

“Where are you going to?”

“Kingsbere.  We have taken rooms there.  Mother is so foolish about father’s people that she will go there.”

“But your mother’s family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little hole of a town like that.  Now why not come to my garden-house at Trantridge?  There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother’s death; but there’s the house, as you know it, and the garden.  It can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school.  Really I ought to do something for you!”

“But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!” she declared.  “And we can wait there—­”

“Wait—­what for?  For that nice husband, no doubt.  Now look here, Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the grounds of your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with you.  Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even if you won’t believe it.  Come to this cottage of mine.  We’ll get up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them excellently; and the children can go to school.”

Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said—­

“How do I know that you would do all this?  Your views may change—­and then—­we should be—­my mother would be—­homeless again.”

“O no—­no.  I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if necessary.  Think it over.”

Tess shook her head.  But d’Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative.

“Please just tell your mother,” he said, in emphatic tones.  “It is her business to judge—­not yours.  I shall get the house swept out and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there.  Now mind, I shall expect you.”

Tess again shook her head, her throat swelling with complicated emotion.  She could not look up at d’Urberville.

“I owe you something for the past, you know,” he resumed.  “And you cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad—­”