There was a worn wooden settee and two wooden armchairs at the front, near the stove, and at the rear an old-fashioned walnut desk.
At this desk in a shabby, leather-cushioned armchair, sat a little old man with scant gray hair and a fringe of gray throat whiskers.

He wore steel-rimmed spectacles and over these he peered at his visitor.
"Good mornin'," said Thankful.

It seemed to her high time that someone said something, and the little man had not opened his lips.

He did not open them even now.
"Um," he grunted, and that was all.
"Are you Mr.Solomon Cobb ?" she asked.

She knew now that he was; he had changed a great deal since she had last seen him, but his eyes had not changed, and he still had the habit she remembered, that of pulling at his whiskers in little, short tugs as if trying to pull them out.