only, for that sort of wondering had not been unknown to himself
in bygone days. And as he looked at the unpractised mouth and lips, he thought
that such a daughter of the soil could only have caught up the sentiment by
rote. She went on peeling the lords and ladies till Clare, regarding for a
moment the wave-like curl of her lashes as they drooped with her bent gaze on
her soft cheek, lingeringly went away. When he was gone she stood awhile,
thoughtfully peeling the last bud; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung
it and all the crowd of floral nobility impatiently on the ground, in an
ebullition of displeasure with herself for her niaiseries, and with a quickening
warmth in her heart of hearts.
    How stupid he must think her! In an access of hunger for his good opinion
she bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavoured to forget, so
unpleasant had been its issues - the identity of her family with that of the
knightly d'Urbervilles. Barren attribute as it was, disastrous as its discovery
had been in many ways to her, perhaps Mr. Clare, as a gentleman and a student of
history, would respect her sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the
lords and ladies if he knew that those Purbeck-marble and alabaster people in
Kingsbere Church really represented her own lineal forefathers; that she was no
spurious d'Urberville, compounded of money and ambition like those at
Trantridge, but true d'Urberville to the bone.
    But, before venturing to make the revelation, dubious Tess indirectly
sounded the dairyman as to its possible effect upon Mr. Clare, by asking the
former if Mr. Clare had any great respect for old county families when they had
lost all their money and land.
    »Mr. Clare,« said the dairyman emphatically, »is one of the most rebellest
rozums you ever knowed - not a bit like the rest of his family; and if there's
one thing that he do hate more than another 'tis the notion of what's called a'
old family. He says that it stands to reason that old families have done their
spurt of work in past days, and can't have anything left in 'em now. There's the
Billetts and the Drenkhards and the Greys and the St. Quintins and the Hardys
and the Goulds, who used to own the lands for miles down this valley; you could
buy 'em all up now for an old song a' most. Why, our little Retty Priddle here,
you know, is one of the Paridelles -