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.

"Sit down--Elizabeth-Jane--sit down," he said, with a shake in his voice
as he uttered her name, and sitting down himself he allowed his hands
to hang between his knees while he looked upon the carpet. "Your mother,
then, is quite well?"

"She is rather worn out, sir, with travelling."

"A sailor's widow--when did he die?"

"Father was lost last spring."

Henchard winced at the word "father," thus applied. "Do you and she come
from abroad--America or Australia?" he asked.