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"Theology?" murmured Mr. Prohack, turning to look at her and marvelling at the romantic quality of basements. "There was a mission on at the Methodists' in Paddington Street, and in I went. Seems strange to me to be going into a Methodists', seeing as I'm so friendly with Mr. Milcher." "Who is Mr. Milcher?" "Milcher's the sexton at St. Nicodemus, sir. Or I should say sacristan.
All the men, and some of the women, when milking, dug their foreheads into the cows and gazed into the pail. But a few mainly the younger ones rested their heads sideways. This was Tess Durbeyfield's habit, her temple pressing the milcher's flank, her eyes fixed on the far end of the meadow with the quiet of one lost in meditation.
"Well, sir, as I was saying, it might, as you might say, seem strange me popping like that into the Methodists', seeing what Milcher's views are; but my mother was a Methodist in Canonbury, a great place for dissenters, sir, North London, you know, sir, and they do say blood's thicker than water.
Anyhow I says to myself I must see Milcher and tell him the clock hadn't struck eleven, and I prayed as hard as I could for heavenly guidance, and I was just coming down the Square on my way to Milcher's when who should I see get out of a taxi and run into this house but that young lady and her young man.
Prohack paused, collecting himself, determined to keep his nerve through everything. Then he said: "When did the mysterious young lady borrow the keys from you?" "Last night, sir, I mean the night before last." "And where are the keys now?" "Milcher's got 'em, sir. I lay he's up in the tower by this time, a-worrying over that clock. It'll be in the papers you see if it isn't, sir."
The two then argue the case for a quarter of an hour or so, and finally agree that you had better go straight down the lane, round to the right and cross by the third stile, and keep to the left by old Jimmy Milcher's cow-shed, and across the seven-acre field, and through the gate by Squire Grubbin's hay-stack, keeping the bridle-path for awhile till you come opposite the hill where the windmill used to be but it's gone now and round to the right, leaving Stiggin's plantation behind you; and you say "Thank you" and go away with a splitting headache, but without the faintest notion of your way, the only clear idea you have on the subject being that somewhere or other there is a stile which has to be got over; and at the next turn you come upon four stiles, all leading in different directions!
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