"
"Well, I hate the whole thing--it's all so sordid!"
"O Lord!"
"Well, it is! I don't feel that I want to help a woman who can say and
feel such horrid things, or the girl, or any of them."
"Who cares what they say or feel? that's not the point. It's simply a
case of common sense: Your people put that girl there, and they must get
her to clear out again sharp. It's just a question of what's healthy."
"Well, I know it's not healthy for me to have anything to do with, and
I won't! I don't believe you can help people unless they want to be
helped."
Martin whistled.
"You're rather a brute, I think," said Thyme.
"A brute, not rather a brute. That's all the difference."
"For the worse!"
"I don't think so, Thyme!"
There was no answer.
"Look at me."
Very slowly Thyme turned her eyes.
"Well?"
"Are you one of us, or are you not?"
"Of course I am."
"You're not!"
"I am."
"Well, don't let's fight about it. Give me your hand."
He dropped his hand on hers. Her face had flushed rose colour. Suddenly
she freed herself. "Here's Uncle Hilary!"
It was indeed Hilary, with Miranda, trotting in advance. His hands were
crossed behind him, his face bent towards the ground. The two young
people on the bench sat looking at him.
"Buried in self-contemplation," murmured Martin; "that's the way he
always walks.
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