On one of these warm afternoons Eustacia walked out alone in the direction of Yeobright’s place of work.  He was busily chopping away at the furze, a long row of faggots which stretched downward from his position representing the labour of the day.  He did not observe her approach, and she stood close to him, and heard his undercurrent of song.  It shocked her.  To see him there, a poor afflicted man, earning money by the sweat of his brow, had at first moved her to tears; but to hear him sing and not at all rebel against an occupation which, however satisfactory to himself, was degrading to her, as an educated lady-wife, wounded her through.  Unconscious of her presence, he still went on singing:—­

    “Le point du jour
   A nos bosquets rend toute leur parure;
     Flore est plus belle a son retour;
     L’oiseau reprend doux chant d’amour;
     Tout celebre dans la nature
       Le point du jour.

    “Le point du jour
   Cause parfois, cause douleur extreme;
     Que l’espace des nuits est court
     Pour le berger brulant d’amour,
     Force de quitter ce qu’il aime
       Au point du jour!”

It was bitterly plain to Eustacia that he did not care much about social failure; and the proud fair woman bowed her head and wept in sick despair at thought of the blasting effect upon her own life of that mood and condition in him.  Then she came forward.

“I would starve rather than do it!” she exclaimed vehemently.  “And you can sing!  I will go and live with my grandfather again!”

“Eustacia!  I did not see you, though I noticed something moving,” he said gently.  He came forward, pulled off his huge leather glove, and took her hand.  “Why do you speak in such a strange way?  It is only a little old song which struck my fancy when I was in Paris, and now just applies to my life with you.  Has your love for me all died, then, because my appearance is no longer that of a fine gentleman?”

“Dearest, you must not question me unpleasantly, or it may make me not love you.”

“Do you believe it possible that I would run the risk of doing that?”

“Well, you follow out your own ideas, and won’t give in to mine when I wish you to leave off this shameful labour.  Is there anything you dislike in me that you act so contrarily to my wishes?  I am your wife, and why will you not listen?  Yes, I am your wife indeed!”

“I know what that tone means.”

“What tone?”

“The tone in which you said, ‘Your wife indeed.’  It meant, ’Your wife, worse luck.’”

“It is hard in you to probe me with that remark.  A woman may have reason, though she is not without heart, and if I felt ‘worse luck,’ it was no ignoble feeling—­it was only too natural.  There, you see that at any rate I do not attempt untruths.  Do you remember how, before we were married, I warned you that I had not good wifely qualities?”