been entrancing herself by imagining the fascination which must attend
a man come direct from beautiful Paris--laden with its atmosphere,
familiar with its charms. And this man had greeted her.

With the departure of the figures the profuse articulations of the women
wasted away from her memory; but the accents of the other stayed on.
Was there anything in the voice of Mrs. Yeobright's son--for Clym
it was--startling as a sound? No; it was simply comprehensive. All
emotional things were possible to the speaker of that "good night."
Eustacia's imagination supplied the rest--except the solution to one
riddle. What COULD the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and
geniality in these shaggy hills?

On such occasions as this a thousand ideas pass through a highly charged
woman's head; and they indicate themselves on her face; but the changes,
though actual, are minute. Eustacia's features went through a rhythmical
succession of them. She glowed; remembering the mendacity of the
imagination, she flagged; then she freshened; then she fired; then she
cooled again. It was a cycle of aspects, produced by a cycle of visions.

Eustacia entered her own house; she was excited. Her grandfather was
enjoying himself over the fire, raking about the ashes and exposing the
red-hot surface of the turves, so that their lurid glare irradiated the
chimney-corner with the hues of a furnace.

"Why is it that we are never friendly with the Yeobrights?" she said,
coming forward and stretching her soft hands over the warmth. "I wish we
were. They seem to be very nice people."

"Be hanged if I know why," said the captain. "I liked the old man well