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."