With this view she made a toilette which differed from all she had ever attempted before.  To heighten her natural attraction had hitherto been the unvarying endeavour of her adult life, and one in which she was no novice.  But now she neglected this, and even proceeded to impair the natural presentation.  Beyond a natural reason for her slightly drawn look, she had not slept all the previous night, and this had produced upon her pretty though slightly worn features the aspect of a countenance ageing prematurely from extreme sorrow.  She selected—­as much from want of spirit as design—­her poorest, plainest and longest discarded attire.

To avoid the contingency of being recognized she veiled herself, and slipped out of the house quickly.  The sun was resting on the hill like a drop of blood on an eyelid by the time she had got up the road opposite the amphitheatre, which she speedily entered.  The interior was shadowy, and emphatic of the absence of every living thing.

She was not disappointed in the fearful hope with which she awaited him.  Henchard came over the top, descended and Lucetta waited breathlessly.  But having reached the arena she saw a change in his bearing:  he stood still at a little distance from her; she could not think why.

Nor could any one else have known.  The truth was that in appointing this spot, and this hour, for the rendezvous, Lucetta had unwittingly backed up her entreaty by the strongest argument she could have used outside words, with this man of moods, glooms, and superstitions.  Her figure in the midst of the huge enclosure, the unusual plainness of her dress, her attitude of hope and appeal, so strongly revived in his soul the memory of another ill-used woman who had stood there and thus in bygone days, and had now passed away into her rest, that he was unmanned, and his heart smote him for having attempted reprisals on one of a sex so weak.  When he approached her, and before she had spoken a word, her point was half gained.

His manner as he had come down had been one of cynical carelessness; but he now put away his grim half-smile, and said in a kindly subdued tone, “Goodnight t’ye.  Of course I in glad to come if you want me.”

“O, thank you,” she said apprehensively.

“I am sorry to see ’ee looking so ill,” he stammered with unconcealed compunction.

She shook her head.  “How can you be sorry,” she asked, “when you deliberately cause it?”

“What!” said Henchard uneasily.  “Is it anything I have done that has pulled you down like that?”

“It is all your doing,” she said.  “I have no other grief.  My happiness would be secure enough but for your threats.  O Michael! don’t wreck me like this!  You might think that you have done enough!  When I came here I was a young woman; now I am rapidly becoming an old one.  Neither my husband nor any other man will regard me with interest long.”