His fingers kept pressing her
shoulder through her thin blouse. And the touch of those fingers was
worth more than any words, as this night, all moonlit dreams, was worth
more than a thousand nights of sane reality.
Thyme twisted herself away from him at last. "I can't," she sobbed. "I'm
not what you thought me--I'm not made for it!"
A scornful little smile curled Martin's lip. So that was it! But the
smile soon died away. One did not hit what was already down!
Thyme's voice wailed through the silence. "I thought I could--but I want
beautiful things. I can't bear it all so grey and horrible. I'm not like
that girl. I'm-an-amateur!"
'If I kissed her---' Martin thought.
She sank down again, burying her face in the dark beech-mat. The
moonlight had passed on. Her voice came faint and stiffed, as out of the
tomb of faith. "I'm no good. I never shall be. I'm as bad as mother!"
But to Martin there was only the scent of her hair.
"No," murmured Thyme's voice, "I'm only fit for miserable Art.... I'm
only fit for--nothing!"
They were so close together on the dark beech mat that their bodies
touched, and a longing to clasp her in his arms came over him.
"I'm a selfish beast!" moaned the smothered voice. "I don't really care
for all these people--I only care because they're ugly for me to see!"
Martin reached his hand out to her hair.
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