“Upon my honour!” cried he, “there was never before such a beautiful thing in Nature or Art as you look, Cousin Tess.” (“Cousin” had a faint ring of mockery.) “I have been watching you from over the wall—sitting like Im -patience on a monument, and pouting up that pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note. Why, you are quite cross because you can’t do it.”
“I may be cross, but I didn’t swear.”
“Ah! I understand why you are trying—those bullies! My mother wants you to carry on their musical education. How selfish of her! As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough work for any girl. I would flatly refuse, if I were you.”
“But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by tomorrow morning.”
“Does she? Well then—I’ll give you a lesson or two.”
“Oh no, you won’t!” said Tess, withdrawing towards the door.
“Nonsense; I don’t want to touch you. See—I’ll stand on this side of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel quite safe. Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly. There ’tis—so.”
He suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of “Take, O take those lips away.” But the allusion was lost upon Tess.
“Now try,” said d’Urberville.
She attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural severity. But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of him, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note; laughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that she had laughed.