Besides, you know you don't dislike it.'
"It's better to be a brute than an amateur," he said.
Thyme, pressing close to Hilary, as though he needed her protection,
cried out:
"Martin, you really are a Goth!"
Hilary was still smiling, but his face quivered.
"Not at all," he said. "Martin's powers of diagnosis do him credit."
And, raising his hat, he walked away.
The two young people, both on their feet now, looked after him.
Martin's face was a queer study of contemptuous compunction; Thyme's was
startled, softened, almost tearful.
"It won't do him any harm," muttered the young man. "It'll shake him
up."
Thyme flashed a vicious look at him.
"I hate you sometimes," she said. "You're so coarse-grained--your skin's
just like leather."
Martin's hand descended on her wrist.
"And yours," he said, "is tissue-paper. You're all the same, you
amateurs."
"I'd rather be an amateur than a--than a bounder!"
Martin made a queer movement of his jaw, then smiled. That smile seemed
to madden Thyme. She wrenched her wrist away and darted after Hilary.
Martin impassively looked after her. Taking out his pipe, he filled it
with tobacco, slowly pressing the golden threads down into the bowl with
his little finger.
CHAPTER XVII
TWO BROTHERS
If has been said that Stephen Dallison, when unable to get his golf
on Saturdays, went to his club, and read reviews.
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