"Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba.
"I fancied you looked so," said he. "And it is most strange, because of its contrast with my feeling for you."
She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited.
"You know what that feeling is," continued Boldwood deliberately. "A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects that."
"I wish you did not feel so strongly about me," she murmured. "It is generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it now."
"Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want you to hear nothing—not I."
Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly said, "Goodevening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her heavily and dully.
"Bathsheba—darling—is it final indeed?"
"Indeed it is."
"Oh Bathsheba—have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake, yes—I am come to that low, lowest stage—to ask a woman for pity! Still, she is you—she is you."
Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she
