It was his rest day, and he had already moved quite as much as was
usual with him on a Sunday.

"I think I was a little hard with you the other day," said Medlicot,
when they were alone together.

"I suppose we hardly understand each other's ideas," said Harry. He
spoke with a constrained voice, and with an almost savage manner,
engendered by a determination to hold his own. He would forgive any
offense for which an apology was made, but no apology had been made
as yet; and, to tell the truth, he was a little afraid that if they
got into an argument on the matter Medlicot would have the best of
it. And there was, too, almost a claim to superiority in Medlicot's
use of the word "hard." When one man says that he has been hard to
another, he almost boasts that, on that occasion, he got the better
of him.

"That's just it," said Medlicot; "we do not quite understand each
other. But we might believe in each other all the same, and then the
understanding would come. But it isn't just that which I want to say;
such talking rarely does any good."

"What is it, then?"

"You may perhaps be right about that man Nokes."

"No doubt I may. I know I'm right. When I asked him whether he'd been
at my shed, what made him say that he hadn't been there at night-
time? I said nothing about night-time. But the man was there at
night-time, or he wouldn't have used the word."