beyfields 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 to-day 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 flower.’ 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 to-night to keep up club-walking at my own expense.’ The landlady had rapidly re-used the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognised that the newcomer was Tess.
Even to her mother’s gaze the girl’s young features looked sadly out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a reproachful flash from Tess’s dark eyes needed to make her father and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and descend
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