walked on through the tunnel-shaped passage into the garden, and thence
by the back door towards the stores and granaries. A light shone from
the office-window, and there being no blind to screen the interior
Henchard could see Donald Farfrae still seated where he had left him,
initiating himself into the managerial work of the house by overhauling
the books. Henchard entered, merely observing, "Don't let me interrupt
you, if ye will stay so late."

He stood behind Farfrae's chair, watching his dexterity in clearing up
the numerical fogs which had been allowed to grow so thick in Henchard's
books as almost to baffle even the Scotchman's perspicacity. The
corn-factor's mien was half admiring, and yet it was not without a dash
of pity for the tastes of any one who could care to give his mind to
such finnikin details. Henchard himself was mentally and physically
unfit for grubbing subtleties from soiled paper; he had in a modern
sense received the education of Achilles, and found penmanship a
tantalizing art.

"You shall do no more to-night," he said at length, spreading his great
hand over the paper. "There's time enough to-morrow. Come indoors with
me and have some supper. Now you shall! I am determined on't." He shut
the account-books with friendly force.

Donald had wished to get to his lodgings; but he already saw that his
friend and employer was a man who knew no moderation in his requests and
impulses, and he yielded gracefully. He liked Henchard's warmth, even if
it inconvenienced him; the great difference in their characters adding
to the liking.

They locked up the office, and the young man followed his companion