"What, did you think I should break in?" said Boldwood, contemptuously.
"Oh no; it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this a moment? I'll hold the light."
Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and doorpost, and put the candle close. "That's the paragraph," he said, placing his finger on a line.
Boldwood looked and read—
"marriages.
"On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose's Church, Bath, by the Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant th Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge."
"This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said Troy. A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words.
The paper fell from Boldwood's hand. Troy continued,—
"Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twentyone pounds not to marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husband. Now Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference between a man and his
