`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 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--'

`I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the practice which went with it!'

`I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. Tomorrow I shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading... .Give me your hand on it now - dear, beautiful Tess!'

With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the casement and the stone mullion.

`Damnation - you are very cruel!' he said, snatching out his arm. `No, no! - I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well, I shall expect you, or your mother and the children at least.'

`I shall not come - I have plenty of money!' she cried.

`Where?'

`At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it.'

`If you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never ask for it - you'll starve first!'

With these words he rode off. just at the corner of the street he met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the brethren.