redit."

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. The two forms of
exercise, in fact, were very similar: in playing golf you went round and
round; in reading reviews you did the same, for in course of time you
were assured of coming to articles that, nullified articles already read.
In both forms of sport the balance was preserved which keeps a man both
sound and young.

And to be both sound and young was to Stephen an everyday necessity. He
was essentially a Cambridge man, springy and undemonstrative, with just
that air of taking a continual pinch of really perfect snuff. Underneath
this manner he was a good worker, a good husband, a good father, and
nothing could be urged against him except his regularity and the fact
that he was never in the wrong. Where he worked, and indeed in other
places, many men were like him. In one respect he resembled them,
perhaps, too much--he disliked leaving the ground unless he knew
precisely where he was coming down again.

He and Cecilia had "got on" from the first. They had both desired to
have one child--no more; they had both desired to keep up with the
times--no more; they now both considered Hilary's position awkward--no
more; and when Cecilia, in the special Jacobean bed, and taking care to
let him have his sleep out first, had told him of this matter of the
Hughs, they had both turned it over very carefully, lying on their backs,
and speaking in grave tones. S