some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out of her sight. Such was Boldwood's hope.
To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process.
Bathsheba's return from a two month's visit to her old aunt at Norcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring directly after her—now presumably in the ninth month of her widowhood—and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.
"I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia," he said, pleasantly.
She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so frankly to her.
"I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence," he continued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could scarcely say less about her.
"She is quite well, sir."
