“You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,” said I, putting out my own. “You were very good-natured to me once, when I am afraid I didn’t show that I thought so.”

“Was I though?” returned the old man. “I’m glad to hear it, but I don’t remember when. Are you sure it was me?”

“Quite.”

“I think my memory has got as short as my breath,” said Mr. Omer, looking at me and shaking his head; “for I don’t remember you.”

“Don’t you remember your coming to the coach to meet me, and my having breakfast here, and our riding out to Blunderstone together: you, and I, and Mrs. Joram, and Mr. Joram too⁠—who wasn’t her husband then?”