‘Good night t’ye,’ said the man with the basket.
‘Good night, Sir John,’ said the parson.
The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.
‘Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I said “Good night,” and you made reply “Good night, Sir John,” as now.
‘I did,’ said the parson.
‘And once before that—near a month ago.’
‘I may have.’
‘Then what might your meaning be in calling me “Sir John” these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?’
The parson rode a step or two nearer.
‘It was only my whim,’ he said; and, after a moment’s hesitation: ‘It was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history. I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane. Don’t you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the direct lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the D’Urbervilles, who derive their descent from
4
