“Good morning, good morning,” said the stranger with profuse heartiness. “Is it Mr. Henchard I am talking to?”
“My name is Henchard.”
“Then I’ve caught ’ee at home—that’s right. Morning’s the time for business, says I. Can I have a few words with you?”
“By all means,” Henchard answered, showing the way in.
“You may remember me?” said his visitor, seating himself.
Henchard observed him indifferently, and shook his head.
“Well—perhaps you may not. My name is Newson.”
Henchard’s face and eyes seemed to die. The other did not notice it. “I know the name well,” Henchard said at last, looking on the floor.
“I make no doubt of that. Well, the fact is, I’ve been looking for ’ee this fortnight past. I landed at Havenpool and went through Casterbridge on my way to Falmouth, and when I got there, they told me you had some years before been living at Casterbridge. Back came I again, and by long and by late I got here by coach, ten minutes ago. ‘He lives down by the mill,’ says they. So here I am. Now—that transaction between us some twenty years agone—’tis that I’ve called about. ’Twas a curious business. I was younger then than I am now, and perhaps the less said about it, in one sense, the better.”
“Curious business! ’Twas worse than curious. I cannot even allow that I’m the man you met then. I was not in my senses, and a man’s senses are himself.”