This evening, night, and morning were passed precisely as the preceding ones had been passed.  On one, and only one, occasion did she—­the formerly free and independent Tess—­venture to make any advances.  It was on the third occasion of his starting after a meal to go out to the flour-mill.  As he was leaving the table he said “Goodbye,” and she replied in the same words, at the same time inclining her mouth in the way of his.  He did not avail himself of the invitation, saying, as he turned hastily aside—­

“I shall be home punctually.”

Tess shrank into herself as if she had been struck.  Often enough had he tried to reach those lips against her consent—­often had he said gaily that her mouth and breath tasted of the butter and eggs and milk and honey on which she mainly lived, that he drew sustenance from them, and other follies of that sort.  But he did not care for them now.  He observed her sudden shrinking, and said gently—­

“You know, I have to think of a course.  It was imperative that we should stay together a little while, to avoid the scandal to you that would have resulted from our immediate parting.  But you must see it is only for form’s sake.”

“Yes,” said Tess absently.

He went out, and on his way to the mill stood still, and wished for a moment that he had responded yet more kindly, and kissed her once at least.

Thus they lived through this despairing day or two; in the same house, truly; but more widely apart than before they were lovers.  It was evident to her that he was, as he had said, living with paralyzed activities in his endeavour to think of a plan of procedure.  She was awe-stricken to discover such determination under such apparent flexibility.  His consistency was, indeed, too cruel.  She no longer expected forgiveness now.  More than once she thought of going away from him during his absence at the mill; but she feared that this, instead of benefiting him, might be the means of hampering and humiliating him yet more if it should become known.

Meanwhile Clare was meditating, verily.  His thought had been unsuspended; he was becoming ill with thinking; eaten out with thinking, withered by thinking; scourged out of all his former pulsating, flexuous domesticity.  He walked about saying to himself, “What’s to be done—­what’s to be done?” and by chance she overheard him.  It caused her to break the reserve about their future which had hitherto prevailed.

“I suppose—­you are not going to live with me—­long, are you, Angel?” she asked, the sunk corners of her mouth betraying how purely mechanical were the means by which she retained that expression of chastened calm upon her face.