It was related that there still remained under the south entrance
excavated cells for the reception of the wild animals and athletes who
took part in the games. The arena was still smooth and circular, as if
used for its original purpose not so very long ago. The sloping pathways
by which spectators had ascended to their seats were pathways yet. But
the whole was grown over with grass, which now, at the end of summer,
was bearded with withered bents that formed waves under the brush of the
wind, returning to the attentive ear aeolian modulations, and detaining
for moments the flying globes of thistledown.

Henchard had chosen this spot as being the safest from observation which
he could think of for meeting his long-lost wife, and at the same time
as one easily to be found by a stranger after nightfall. As Mayor of the
town, with a reputation to keep up, he could not invite her to come to
his house till some definite course had been decided on.

Just before eight he approached the deserted earth-work and entered by
the south path which descended over the debris of the former dens. In
a few moments he could discern a female figure creeping in by the great
north gap, or public gateway. They met in the middle of the arena.
Neither spoke just at first--there was no necessity for speech--and the
poor woman leant against Henchard, who supported her in his arms.

"I don't drink," he said in a low, halting, apologetic voice. "You hear,
Susan?--I don't drink now--I haven't since that night." Those were his
first words.

He felt her bow her head in acknowledgment that she understood. After a
minute or two he again began: