“Subject to an interview,” said Henchard.  “I am sorry for you—­very sorry indeed.  But it can’t be helped.”

There was no more to be said, and the man came out, encountering Elizabeth-Jane in his passage.  She could see that his mouth twitched with anger, and that bitter disappointment was written in his face everywhere.

Elizabeth-Jane now entered, and stood before the master of the premises.  His dark pupils—­which always seemed to have a red spark of light in them, though this could hardly be a physical fact—­turned indifferently round under his dark brows until they rested on her figure.  “Now then, what is it, my young woman?” he said blandly.

“Can I speak to you—­not on business, sir?” said she.

“Yes—­I suppose.”  He looked at her more thoughtfully.

“I am sent to tell you, sir,” she innocently went on, “that a distant relative of yours by marriage, Susan Newson, a sailor’s widow, is in the town, and to ask whether you would wish to see her.”

The rich rouge-et-noir of his countenance underwent a slight change.  “Oh—­Susan is—­still alive?” he asked with difficulty.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you her daughter?”

“Yes, sir—­her only daughter.”

“What—­do you call yourself—­your Christian name?”

“Elizabeth-Jane, sir.”

“Newson?”

“Elizabeth-Jane Newson.”

This at once suggested to Henchard that the transaction of his early married life at Weydon Fair was unrecorded in the family history.  It was more than he could have expected.  His wife had behaved kindly to him in return for his unkindness, and had never proclaimed her wrong to her child or to the world.

“I am—­a good deal interested in your news,” he said.  “And as this is not a matter of business, but pleasure, suppose we go indoors.”

It was with a gentle delicacy of manner, surprising to Elizabeth, that he showed her out of the office and through the outer room, where Donald Farfrae was overhauling bins and samples with the inquiring inspection of a beginner in charge.  Henchard preceded her through the door in the wall to the suddenly changed scene of the garden and flowers, and onward into the house.  The dining-room to which he introduced her still exhibited the remnants of the lavish breakfast laid for Farfrae.  It was furnished to profusion with heavy mahogany furniture of the deepest red-Spanish hues.  Pembroke tables, with leaves hanging so low that they well-nigh touched the floor, stood against the walls on legs and feet shaped like those of an elephant, and on one lay three huge folio volumes—­a Family Bible, a “Josephus,” and a “Whole Duty of Man.”  In the chimney corner was a fire-grate with a fluted semicircular back, having urns and festoons cast in relief thereon, and the chairs were of the kind which, since that day, has cast lustre upon the names of Chippendale and Sheraton, though, in point of fact, their patterns may have been such as those illustrious carpenters never saw or heard of.