Henchard was reading a letter from Lucetta, sent in answer to a note
from him, in which she made some excuse for not immediately granting him
a second interview that he had desired.
Donald had no wish to enter into conversation with his former friend on
their present constrained terms; neither would he pass him in scowling
silence. He nodded, and Henchard did the same. They receded from each
other several paces when a voice cried "Farfrae!" It was Henchard's, who
stood regarding him.
"Do you remember," said Henchard, as if it were the presence of the
thought and not of the man which made him speak, "do you remember my
story of that second woman--who suffered for her thoughtless intimacy
with me?"
"I do," said Farfrae.
"Do you remember my telling 'ee how it all began and how it ended?
"Yes."
"Well, I have offered to marry her now that I can; but she won't marry
me. Now what would you think of her--I put it to you?"
"Well, ye owe her nothing more now," said Farfrae heartily.
"It is true," said Henchard, and went on.
That he had looked up from a letter to ask his questions completely shut
out from Farfrae's mind all vision of Lucetta as the culprit. Indeed,
her present position was so different from that of the young woman of
Henchard's story as of itself to be sufficient to blind him absolutely
to her identity.
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