-listening to the constant murmuring of her pride: I
am not wanted here or anywhere. Better to efface myself!

From their end of the room Thyme and Martin scarcely looked at her. To
them she was Aunt B., an amateur, the mockery of whose eyes sometimes
penetrated their youthful armour; they were besides too interested in
their conversation to perceive that she was suffering. The skirmish of
that conversation had lasted now for many days--ever since the death of
the Hughs' baby.

"Well," Martin was saying, "what are you going to do? It's no good to
base it on the baby; you must know your own mind all round. You can't go
rushing into real work on mere sentiment."

"You went to the funeral, Martin. It's bosh to say you didn't feel it
too!"

Martin deigned no answer to this insinuation.

"We've gone past the need for sentiment," he said: "it's exploded; so is
Justice, administered by an upper class with a patch over one eye and a
squint in the other. When you see a dying donkey in a field, you don't
want to refer the case to a society, as your dad would; you don't want an
essay of Hilary's, full of sympathy with everybody, on 'Walking in a
field: with reflections on the end of donkeys'--you want to put a bullet
in the donkey."

"You're always down on Uncle Hilary," said Thyme.

"I don't mind Hilary himself; I object to his type."

"Well, he objects to yours," said Thyme.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Martin slowly; "he hasn't got character
enough."

Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes,
said: "Well, I do think, of all the conceited persons I ever met you're
the worst."

Martin's nostril curled.

"Are you prepared," he said, "to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you
not?"

"I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!"

Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow.
Retaining it luxuriously, he said: "Don't wander!"

Thyme tried to free her arm. "Let go!"

Martin was looking straight into her eyes. A flush had risen in his
cheeks.

Thyme, too, went the colour of the old-rose curtain behind which she sat.

"Let go!"

"I won't! I'll make you know your mind. What do you mean to do? Are you
coming in a fit of sentiment, or do you mean business?"

Suddenly, half-hypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle. Her face
had the strangest expression of submission and defiance--a sort of pain,
a sort of delight. So they sat full half a minute st