'Then, does he write?'
'I—I cannot tell you. There are things which are private to ourselves.'
'Of course that means that he does not. You are a deserted wife, my poor Tess!'
In an impulse he turned suddenly to take her hand; the buff-glove was on it, and he seized only the rough leather fingers which did not express the life or shape of those within.
'You must not—you must not!' she cried fearfully, slipping her hand from the glove as from a pocket, and leaving it in his grasp. 'O, will you go away—for the sake of me—my husband—go, in the name of your own Christianity!'
'Yes, yes; I will,' he said hastily, and thrusting the glove back to her turned to leave. Facing round, however, he said, 'Tess, as God is my judge, I meant no sin in taking your hand!'
A pattering of hoofs on the soil of the field, which they had not noticed in their preoccupation, ceased close behind them; and a voice reached her ear:
'What the devil are ye doing away from your work at this time o' day?'
