She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who had brought her.

“It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross.  Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?”

Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him.  He conducted her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence to the fruit-garden and greenhouses, where he asked her if she liked strawberries.

“Yes,” said Tess, “when they come.”

“They are already here.”  D’Urberville began gathering specimens of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and, presently, selecting a specially fine product of the “British Queen” variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.

“No—­no!” she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and her lips.  “I would rather take it in my own hand.”

“Nonsense!” he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips and took it in.

They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d’Urberville offered her.  When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her bosom.  She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty.  At last, looking at his watch, he said, “Now, by the time you have had something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to catch the carrier to Shaston.  Come here, and I’ll see what grub I can find.”

Stoke d’Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which he put before her himself.  It was evidently the gentleman’s wish not to be disturbed in this pleasant tete-a-tete by the servantry.

“Do you mind my smoking?” he asked.

“Oh, not at all, sir.”

He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine, as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the “tragic mischief” of her drama—­one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the spectrum of her young life.  She had an attribute which amounted to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec d’Urberville’s eyes to rivet themselves upon her.  It was a luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was.  She had inherited the feature from her mother without the quality it denoted.  It had troubled her mind occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure.