“I am going that way.... Why Mr. Farfrae?” said Henchard, with the fixed look of thought. “Why do people always want Mr. Farfrae?”
“I suppose because they like him so—that’s what they say.”
“Oh—I see—that’s what they say—hey? They like him because he’s cleverer than Mr. Henchard, and because he knows more; and, in short, Mr. Henchard can’t hold a candle to him—hey?”
“Yes—that’s just it, sir—some of it.”
“Oh, there’s more? Of course there’s more! What besides? Come, here’s a sixpence for a fairing.”
“‘And he’s better tempered, and Henchard’s a fool to him,’ they say. And when some of the women were a-walking home they said, ‘He’s a diment—he’s a chap o’ wax—he’s the best—he’s the horse for my money,’ says they. And they said, ‘He’s the most understanding man o’ them two by long chalks. I wish he was the master instead of Henchard,’ they said.”
“They’ll talk any nonsense,” Henchard replied with covered gloom. “Well, you can go now. And I am coming to value the hay, d’ye hear?—I.” The boy departed, and Henchard murmured, “Wish he were master here, do they?”
He went towards Durnover. On his way he overtook Farfrae. They walked on together, Henchard looking mostly on the ground.
“You’re no yoursel’ the day?” Donald inquired.
“Yes, I am very well,” said Henchard.