He did not answer the question.  Instead, after another long look, he said: 

“If you’re sellin’ books, I don’t want none.  Don’t use ’em.”

This was so entirely unexpected that Mrs. Barnes was, for the moment, confused and taken aback.

“Books!” she repeated, wonderingly.  “I didn’t say anything about books.  I asked you if you was Mr. Cobb.”

Another look.  “If you’re sellin’ or peddlin’ or agentin’ or anything I don’t want none,” said the little man.  “I’m tellin’ you now so’s you can save your breath and mine.  I’ve got all I want.”

Thankful looked at him and his surroundings.  This ungracious and unlooked for reception began to have its effect upon her temper; as she wrote Emily in the letter, her “back fin began to rise.”  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that, judging by appearances, he should want a good many things, politeness among others.  But she did not say it.

“I ain’t a peddler or a book agent,” she declared, crisply.  “When I ask you to buy, seems to me ’twould be time enough to say no.  If you’re Solomon Cobb, and I know you are, I’ve come to see you on business.”

The word “business” had an effect.  Mr. Cobb swung about in his chair and regarded her fixedly.  There was a slight change in his tone.

“Business, hey?” he repeated.  “Well, I’m a business man, ma’am.  What sort of business is it you’ve got?”

Thankful did not answer the question immediately.  Instead she walked nearer to the desk.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “you’re Solomon Cobb.  I should know you anywhere now.  And I ain’t seen you for twenty year.  I presume likely you don’t know me.”

The man of business stared harder than ever.  He took off his spectacles, rubbed them with his handkerchief, put them on and stared again.

“No, ma’am, I don’t,” he said.  “You don’t live in Trumet, I know that.  You ain’t seen me for twenty year, eh?  Twenty year is quite a spell.  And yet there’s somethin’ sort of—­sort of familiar about you, now that I look closer.  Who be you?”

“My name is Thankful Barnes—­now.  It didn’t used to be.  When you knew me ’twas Thankful Cahoon.  My grandmother, on my father’s side, was your mother’s own cousin.  Her name was Matilda Myrick.  That makes you and me sort of distant relations, Mr. Cobb.”

If she expected this statement to have the effect of making the little man more cordial she was disappointed.  In fact, if it had any effect at all, it was the opposite, judging by his manner and expression.  His only comments on the disclosure of kinship were a “Humph!” and a brief “Want to know!” He stared at Thankful and she at him.  Then he said: 

“Well?”

Mrs. Barnes was astonished.

“Well?” she repeated.  “What’s well?  What do you mean by that?”

“Nothin’s I know of.  You said you came to see me about some business or other.  What sort of business?”