ing another might be begun. But, tired of playing, he had desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling up behind her. Tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if hardly moving at all.
Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low tones quite reaching her, though he was some distance off.
‘What makes you draw off in that way, Tess?’ said he. ‘Are you afraid?’
‘Oh no, sir . . . not of outdoor things; especially just now when the apple-blooth is falling, and everything so green.’
‘But you have your indoor fears—eh?’
‘Well—yes, sir.’
‘What of?’
‘I couldn’t quite say.’
‘The milk turning sour?’
‘No.’
‘Life in general?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah—so am I, very often. This hobble of being alive is rather serious, don’t you think so?’
‘It is—now you put it that way, sir.’
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