"I know it," said Bowden. "And why not? Fond she is, else she wouldn't take so much trouble to try and get Rhoda to have you."
"Exactly so. And now I'm coming to the tricky place in our talk. I met Margaret a bit agone--mind, I'm talking like her brother might--and she was crying. Just after leaving you it was, David. I asked her what was amiss, and she told me 'twas all her weak nonsense. Then it come out--as a sister to a brother. She'd vexed you and she was cut to the heart about it. She loves the ground you walk on, David; and when she don't hit it off with you--when you look black at her--'tis like holding back water from a flower. By God, she droops!"
"Crying, you say?"
"Had been, and couldn't hide it. You'd never have known it; but I said to myself, 'that man don't guess what he is to her, or that a cold word frets her like a wound.' Be angry with me if you like, Bowden, and tell me to mind my own business. I'll take it now--now that I've told you."
David stopped and got off his horse.
"I'm not angry," he said. "The question is, what have you told me? I'll thank you to say it again; and don't fear to use clear words. I like 'em best."
"The point is that, busy as you are and up to the eyes in affairs and beasts and money-making in general, you've missed a lot in Madge that's worth finding out. And you must find it out if you want her to be a happy woman."
"What don't I know?"
"You don't know how to humour her."
"A sane, grown-up woman don't want humouring, surely?"