“I don’t say that; yet I don’t deny it. I have thought about you. You’re a good chap and very restful to the nerves; and your sense, coming on the foolishness of some people, shows up in a bright light.” “You’ve hardly seen a twinkle of it yet, Lydia. I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, or nothing like that; but with all my faults, you’d find the sense was here, and the patience.” “You’re a marrying sort of man, no doubt, and you’ve got all the makings of a good, restful husband—I see that too. But I reckon you haven’t looked round far enough yet. There’s a lot against me. I ain’t a free woman by any manner of means, and you don’t want to be saddled with my troubles. That’s the worse of marriage in my opinion. A man says, ‘I take the woman and not her family,’ and the woman says the same; but things don’t fall out like that in life. There’s always the families, and nobody can escape from ’em.” “True, but we can be very good friends with our relations without doing nursemaid’s work for ’em as well as our own work. ’Tis time you stopped working altogether in my opinion, and had a bit of rest and comfort to your life—such a dignified creature as you are by nature. The farm gets stuffier and stuffier and you can’t deny it. It will tell on your health and break you down. So why not do as I beg of you and come to me?” “Have you ever thought of that nice woman, Alice Barefoot?” asked Lydia suddenly, and Mr. Knox stopped dead, stared at her through the gloaming and mopped his head and neck again. “Good God! What d’you mean?” “A woman without a care or encumbrance and—” “Stop,” he said. “That’s not a worthy remark, and I’ll start to forget and forgive it, if you please, this moment. If you just think all that goes to such a speech as that, you’ll be sorry you made it. A man tells you he loves you, and you say ‘Try next door.’ That’s bad enough in itself; but there’s more to it and worse even than that. For it means either you don’t know Alice, or you don’t know me. You ought to understand perfectly well that a woman like her is no more use to me than a Red Indian. And you do know it; and if you’d thought half a minute, you’d never have let yourself say such a wild and unkind and silly thing as that. It shows a very great lack of interest in me—far less interest than I thought you felt in fact. I’m shook, Lydia; I thought we understood each other better.” “She’s a fine and a good woman,” said Mrs. Trivett feebly. “Good she may be, in a bleak sort of way; fine she is not and you know it. Besides, surely at my time of life a man wants a mind, if he’s got one himself. No doubt you think the world of Alice Barefoot; but even you ain’t going to argue she’s got more mind than would go on a three-penny piece and leave a margin.” “I’m sorry—I was quite wrong,” confessed Lydia. “You were, and since you’re sorry, enough said. I’ll resume another time. Here’s the top and I won’t go no farther to-night. You ain’t yourself, I’m afraid.”