Rose and Thorn, Martin said: "I'm going to see
what that precious amateur has done about the baby. If he hasn't moved
the girl, I expect to find things in a pretty mess."
Thyme's face changed at once.
"Just remember," she said, "that I don't want to go there. I don't see
the good, when there's such a tremendous lot waiting to be done."
"Every other case, except the one in hand!"
"It's not my case. You're so disgustingly unfair, Martin. I don't like
those people."
"Oh, you amateur!"
Thyme flushed crimson. "Look here!" she said, speaking with dignity, "I
don't care what you call me, but I won't have you call Uncle Hilary an
amateur."
"What is he, then?"
"I like him."
"That's conclusive."
"Yes, it is."
Martin did not reply, looking sideways at Thyme with his queer,
protective smile. They were passing through a street superior to Hound
Street in its pretensions to be called a slum.
"Look here!" he said suddenly; "a man like Hilary's interest in all
this sort of thing is simply sentimental. It's on his nerves. He takes
philanthropy just as he'd take sulphonal for sleeplessness."
Thyme looked shrewdly up at him.
"Well," she said, "it's just as much on your nerves. You see it from the
point of view of health; he sees it from the point of view of sentiment,
that's all.
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