“Oh, that’s nothing.” “But you want to speak to me, I suppose?” “Oh yes; if you like to.” “Shall I clamber across, or will you come to the plank above here?” Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of the brown girl rested in his own when he had said the words, and there was a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb announcement of affinity _in posse_ between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was concerned, had no sort of premeditation in it. She saw that he had singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of their lives is to be occupied with the feminine. Springing to her feet, she said: “Bring back what is lying there.” Jude was now aware that no message on any matter connected with her father’s business had prompted her signal to him. He set down his basket of tools, picked up the scrap of offal, beat a pathway for himself with his stick, and got over the hedge. They walked in parallel lines, one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge. As the girl drew nearer to it, she gave without Jude perceiving it, an adroit little suck to the interior of each of her cheeks in succession, by which curious and original manœuvre she brought as by magic upon its smooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she was able to retain there as long as she continued to smile. This production of dimples at will was a not unknown operation, which many attempted, but only a few succeeded in accomplishing. They met in the middle of the plank, and Jude, tossing back her missile, seemed to expect her to explain why she had audaciously stopped him by this novel artillery instead of by hailing him. But she, slyly looking in another direction, swayed herself backwards and forwards on her hand as it clutched the rail of the bridge; till, moved by amatory curiosity, she turned her eyes critically upon him. “You don’t think _I_ would shy things at you?” “Oh no.” “We are doing this for my father, who naturally doesn’t want anything thrown away. He makes that into dubbin.” She nodded towards the fragment on the grass. “What made either of the others throw it, I wonder?” Jude asked, politely accepting her assertion, though he had very large doubts as to its truth. “Impudence. Don’t tell folk it was I, mind!” “How can I? I don’t know your name.” “Ah, no. Shall I tell it to you?” “Do!” “Arabella Donn. I’m living here.” “I must have known it if I had often come this way. But I mostly go straight along the high-road.” “My father is a pig-breeder, and these girls are helping me wash the innerds for black-puddings 

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