O yes, everybody
is full of him, and the care Mr. Henchard has to keep him, to be sure!"
concluded this gentleman.
"But he won't do it for long, good-now," said the other.
"No!" said Henchard to himself behind the tree. "Or if he do, he'll be
honeycombed clean out of all the character and standing that he's built
up in these eighteen year!"
He went back to the dancing pavilion. Farfrae was footing a quaint
little dance with Elizabeth-Jane--an old country thing, the only one she
knew, and though he considerately toned down his movements to suit her
demurer gait, the pattern of the shining little nails in the soles of
his boots became familiar to the eyes of every bystander. The tune
had enticed her into it; being a tune of a busy, vaulting, leaping
sort--some low notes on the silver string of each fiddle, then a
skipping on the small, like running up and down ladders--"Miss M'Leod of
Ayr" was its name, so Mr. Farfrae had said, and that it was very popular
in his own country.
It was soon over, and the girl looked at Henchard for approval; but
he did not give it. He seemed not to see her. "Look here, Farfrae," he
said, like one whose mind was elsewhere, "I'll go to Port-Bredy Great
Market to-morrow myself. You can stay and put things right in your
clothes-box, and recover strength to your knees after your vagaries.
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