Henchard and Elizabeth sat conversing by the fire. It was three weeks after Mrs. Henchard's funeral, the candles were not lighted, and a restless, acrobatic flame, poised on a coal, called from the shady walls the smiles of all shapes that could respond -- the old pier-glass, with gilt columns and huge entablature, the picture-frames, sundry knobs and handles, and the brass rosette at the bottom of each riband bell-pull on either side of the chimney-piece.
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"Elizabeth, do you think much of old times?" said Henchard.
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"Yes, sir; often," she said.
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"Who do you put in your pictures of 'em?"
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Chapter 19
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