“You have my leave,” Lucetta was saying gaily. “Speak what you like.”
“Well, then,” replied Farfrae, with the unmistakable inflection of the lover pure, which Henchard had never heard in full resonance of his lips before, “you are sure to be much sought after for your position, wealth, talents, and beauty. But will ye resist the temptation to be one of those ladies with lots of admirers—ay—and be content to have only a homely one?”
“And he the speaker?” said she, laughing. “Very well, sir, what next?”
“Ah! I’m afraid that what I feel will make me forget my manners!”
“Then I hope you’ll never have any, if you lack them only for that cause.” After some broken words which Henchard lost she added, “Are you sure you won’t be jealous?”
Farfrae seemed to assure her that he would not, by taking her hand.
“You are convinced, Donald, that I love nobody else,” she presently said. “But I should wish to have my own way in some things.”
“In everything! What special thing did you mean?”
“If I wished not to live always in Casterbridge, for instance, upon finding that I should not be happy here?”
Henchard did not hear the reply; he might have done so and much more, but he did not care to play the eavesdropper. They went on towards the scene of activity, where the sheaves were being handed, a dozen a minute, upon the carts and waggons which carried them away.