She sat down upon the lowest step, and Elizabeth-Jane obeyed her
directions and stood among the idlers.

"What's going on to-night?" asked the girl, after singling out an old
man and standing by him long enough to acquire a neighbourly right of
converse.

"Well, ye must be a stranger sure," said the old man, without taking
his eyes from the window. "Why, 'tis a great public dinner of the
gentle-people and such like leading volk--wi' the Mayor in the chair. As
we plainer fellows bain't invited, they leave the winder-shutters open
that we may get jist a sense o't out here. If you mount the steps you
can see em. That's Mr. Henchard, the Mayor, at the end of the table, a
facing ye; and that's the Council men right and left....Ah, lots of them
when they begun life were no more than I be now!"

"Henchard!" said Elizabeth-Jane, surprised, but by no means suspecting
the whole force of the revelation. She ascended to the top of the steps.

Her mother, though her head was bowed, had already caught from the
inn-window tones that strangely riveted her attention, before the old
man's words, "Mr. Henchard, the Mayor," reached her ears. She arose,
and stepped up to her daughter's side as soon as she could do so without
showing exceptional eagerness.

The interior of the hotel dining-room was spread out before her, with
its tables, and glass, and plate, and inmates. Facing the window, in the
chair of dignity, sat a man about forty years of age; of heavy frame,
large features, and commanding voice; his general build being rather
coarse than compact. He had a rich complexion, which verged on