would; and likely enough ’twould lead to some noble gentleman marrying her. In short, I know it.”
“How?”
“I tried her fate in the Fortune-Teller , and it brought out that very thing! … You should ha’ seen how pretty she looked today; her skin is as sumple as a duchess’s.”
“What says the maid herself to going?”
“I’ve not asked her. She don’t know there is any such lady-relation yet. But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage, and she won’t say nay to going.”
“Tess is queer.”
“But she’s tractable at bottom. Leave her to me.”
Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine prospects in store.
“Tess is a fine figure o’ fun, as I said to myself today when I zeed her vamping round parish with the rest,” observed one of the elderly boozers in an undertone. “But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she don’t get green malt in floor.” It was a local phrase which had a peculiar meaning, and there was no reply.
The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were heard crossing the room below.
“—Being a few private friends asked in tonight to keep up club-walking at my own expense.” The landlady had rapidly reused the formula she