"Ah! you see; even you have noticed it."
"Yes; but he ain't mad, though," Cuckoo concluded, with an echo of that obstinacy which she could never completely conquer. She said what she felt. She could not help it. The doctor was in no wise offended by this unskilled opinion opposed to his skilled one. He even smiled slightly.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
"He's too sharp. He's a sight too sharp."
"Madmen are very cunning."
"So are women," Cuckoo exclaimed. "I could see if a man was mad."
She was a little intoxicated with the swift motion, the bright sun, the keen air, the clang of the horse's hoofs on the hard roads, and, most of all, with this conference which the befurred coachman was on no account to hear. This made her hold fast to her opinion, with no thought of being rude or presuming. The doctor, accustomed to have duchesses and others hanging upon his words of wisdom, was whipped into a refreshed humour by this odd attitude of an ignorant girl, and he replied with extreme vivacity:
"You will think as I do one day. Meanwhile listen to me. When Mr. Cresswell came to you and broke out into this tirade, which you say you remember, on the subject of will, did he not show any excitement?"
"Eh?"
"Did he get excited, very hot and eager? Did he speak unusually loud, or make any curious gestures with his hands? Did he do anything, that you can remember, such as an ordinary man would not do?"