“I can’t see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?”
Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so Liddy suggested—“Say you’re a fright with dust, and can’t come down.”
“Yes—that sounds very well,” said Mrs. Coggan, critically.
“Say I can’t see him—that will do.”
Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested, adding, however, on her own responsibility, “Miss is dusting bottles, sir, and is quite a object—that’s why ’tis.”
“Oh, very well,” said the deep voice indifferently. “All I wanted to ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?”
“Nothing, sir—but we may know to-night. William Smallbury is gone to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the other men be inquiring about everywhere.”
The horse’s tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door closed.
“Who is Mr. Boldwood?” said Bathsheba.
“A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury.”