"Aren't you coming?" shouted Martin.
Her voice was heard answering from above: "No, not tonight."
With the back of her hand Thyme rubbed off the kiss. The two cousins
walked out amongst the traffic.
The evening was very warm and close; no breeze fanned the reeking town.
Speaking little, they wandered among endless darkening streets, whence
to return to the light and traffic of the Euston Road seemed like coming
back to Heaven. At last, close again to her new home, Thyme said: "Why
should one bother? It's all a horrible great machine, trying to blot us
out; people are like insects when you put your thumb on them and smear
them on a book. I hate--I loathe it!"
"They might as well be healthy insects while they last," answered
Martin.
Thyme faced round at him. "I shan't sleep tonight, Martin; get out my
bicycle for me."
Martin scrutinised her by the light of the street lamp. "All right," he
said; "I'll come too."
There are, say moralists, roads that lead to Hell, but it was on a road
that leads to Hampstead that the two young cyclists set forth towards
eleven o'clock. The difference between the character of the two
destinations was soon apparent, for whereas man taken in bulk had
perhaps made Hell, Hampstead had obviously been made by the upper
classes. There were trees and gardens, and instead of dark canals of sky
banked by the roofs of houses and hazed with the yellow scum of London
lights, the heavens spread out in a wide trembling pool.
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