The man meantime was moving at one point of that great trio of tors known hereabout as "the Triangle." The heights of Sheep’s Tor, Lether Tor and Down Tor are equidistant, and once upon a time, in the hollowed midst of them, Nature’s hand held a lake. Then its granite barriers were swept away and the cup ran empty. Hereafter Meavy river flowed through the midst of meadows and, at the time of these incidents, continued to do so. It was not until nearly fifty years later that thirsty men rebuilt the cup to hold sweet water for their towns. Across the river went Margaret and Bartley; then they turned and, by a detour, set their faces towards her home. Their talk was light and cheerful. It ranged over many subjects, including love, but no note of any close, personal regard marked the conversation. "What do you think of Rhoda Bowden?" he asked, and Margaret answered slowly: "I think a lot of her. She’s a solemn sort of girl and goeth so grand-like! She’m different to most of us--so tall and sweeping in her walk. Maidens mostly mince in their going; but she swingeth along like a man." "She’s a jolly fine girl, Madge." "David be terrible fond of her." "Yes, he is. I saw that this morning before dinner. And I got actually a touch of pink into her cheek to-day, if you’ll believe it." "You’re that bowldacious always--enough to make any girl blush with your nonsense." "Not at all. I wouldn’t say anything outright--but I just mentioned Simon Snell of all men, and I’ll swear Miss Rhoda flickered up!" "You never know what natures catch heat from each other. I don’t reckon Rhoda’s fond of men." "And surely Snell would never dare to be fond of girls." "And yet, for just that reason, they might be drawn together." By chance the man of whom they spoke appeared a little farther on their way. He was a large-boned, ox-eyed labourer, with a baby’s face on adult shoulders. Not a wrinkle of thought, not a sensual line was ruled upon his round cheeks or brow. A yellow beard and moustache hid the lower part of his face. His skin was clear and high-coloured; his nose was thin; his forehead was high and narrow. "Give you good-afternoon," said Mr. Snell. He spoke in a thin, colourless voice and his face revealed no expression but a sort of ovine placidity. Bartley winked at Madge. "And how be all at Ditsworthy Warren House, Simon?" he asked. "I was there last Thursday. They was all well then. I’m going there now to drink tea with--" "With Miss Rhoda--eh? Or is it Miss Dorcas?" The shadowy ghost of a smile touched Simon’s mild face. "What a dashing way you have of mentioning the females! I never could do it, I’m sure. ’Tis about some spaniel pups as I be going up over. Give you good-afternoon." He stalked away, calm, solemn, inane.