"Well, what about it, Bartley?"
"I suppose 'tis infernal impudence of me," he said. "All the same I'm an old friend and one good turn deserves another. You're trying to help me to get what I want; I wonder if I could help you a bit here and there?"
"Whatever do you mean? And what did you see at our home that makes you say such a curious thing?"
"'Tisn't what I saw, but what I didn't see. But there, what on God's earth am I saying? 'Tisn't to you I should speak."
"Go on and tell me."
"I can't, for I can't give it a name. Only somehow--look here, I'm a fool to touch this. I'm talking too soon. I must wait and see a bit more. You can't have your mind in two places at once, Madge. I'm not myself of late and very likely I fancy things. You'd reckon I had enough to think about without mixing up myself in other people's business. But you are different to everybody else. I feel we've been hunting in couples of late, and so your good's mine."
"How you run on! And that wild. I don't know now what you're talking about, you silly chap."
"More do I. I only know two things for certain. And one is that my mother is worse, and the other is that your sister-in-law was jolly interested in what I said about Canada. Did you mark that?"
"She was. The wildness and bigness of the land would draw her to it. I meant to tell you. After you'd gone--but I am so sorry about your dear mother. I thought last week that she seemed a little better."
"No--not really. It's got to be. God knows that if talking would mend her, I'd talk for a year. But it won't. So go on about Rhoda, please."