"There’s always somebody else where a pretty girl be wife-old," she answered. "In the case of Rhoda--well, it seems absurd--it is absurd--too absurd to be true, and yet I won’t deny there’s something in it." "You mean that bearded antic of a Snell?" "He’s very much gone on Rhoda in his cautious, lizard sort of a way. He looks at her in church." "Yes, like a cow looks at a passing coach. Surely that slow-witted, knock-kneed shadow of a man can’t interest Rhoda?" "Such things ban’t easily explained, but it’s true that he’s about the only male that ever keeps her talking. I wouldn’t say that he ever dreams of such a thing as marriage, but--" "Good Lord--marriage! I’d so soon expect to see him a bishop as a husband. What now can it be that she likes in poor Simon? I wish I knew, for I’d try to copy it." "I’ve oft wondered. ’Tis something in the air of him that makes her feel easy and friendly." "I wish he’d got the wit to tell me how he does it." "He doesn’t know--no more does she. But there ’tis. She can suffer him; she can even talk about him." "Try and see what the trick is, Madge. Ask Simon to tea and watch ’em together. What do they speak about?" "I’ll do what I can. She was a bit ruffed with Simon last week, however." "Angered with him! That’s a bad sign, if she could be interested enough in such a shadow as Simon as to be cross with him. She’ve never been cross with me--not since we made it up." "She was angry because Mr. Snell has got rather friendly of late with Billy and Dorcas Screech. Their house is near his work and he drops in sometimes, I believe. He told Rhoda that the baby was very like its grandmother to Ditsworthy Warren, and Rhoda flared up and answered that she’d thank him never to name it to her again." "Another mystery in her. If I ever have any luck with her, the first thing will be to make her a bit kinder to women, Madge." "She’s kind enough; but to say it without feeling, she’s narrow and she hates the mother business. She never will be fond of childer, I’m afraid, Bartley." "Then we shall be of one mind there anyway. I don’t like ’em either--never did and never shall." "Wait and see. You’ll change from all that nonsense." Suddenly Bartley started. "Talk of--there goeth Rhoda by the footpath yonder." "So she is! Fancy that. I’ll call her. She’s on her way to Ditsworthy till evening. But I thought she’d gone long ago." Bartley whistled and a solitary fox-terrier, who was the woman’s companion, rushed over to see what was doing. He recognised Margaret and stopped; then he turned, held up a paw and waited to see whether Rhoda was coming after him. Madge called and Rhoda came to them. Mr. Crocker greeted her with friendship and Margaret asked where she had been.