y come along and swallow up the
lot. We've simply grasped this elementary fact, that theories are no
basis for reform. We go on the evidence of our eyes and noses; what we
see and smell is wrong we correct by practical and scientific means."

"Will you apply that to human nature?"

"It's human nature to want health."

"I wonder! It doesn't look much like it at present."

"Take the case of this woman."

"Yes," said Hilary, "take her case. You can't make this too clear to me,
Martin."

"She's no use--poor sort altogether. The man's no use. A man who's been
wounded in the head, and isn't a teetotaller, is done for. The girl's no
use--regular pleasure-loving type!"

Thyme flushed crimson, and, seeing that flood of colour in his niece's
face, Hilary bit his lips.

"The only things worth considering are the children. There's this
baby-well, as I said, the important thing is that the mother should
be able to look after it properly. Get hold of that, and let the other
facts go hang."

"Forgive me, but my difficulty is to isolate this question of the baby's
health from all the other circumstances of the case."

Martin grinned.

"And you'll make that an excuse, I'm certain, for doing nothing."

Thyme slipped her hand into Hilary's.

"You are a brute, Martin," she-murmured.

The young man turned on her a look that said: 'It's no use calling me a
brute; I'm proud of being one. Besides, you know you don't dislike it.'

"It's better to be a brute than an amateur," he said.

Thyme, pressing close to Hilary, as though he needed her protection,
cried out:

"Martin, you really are a Goth!"

Hilary was still smiling, but his face quivered.

"Not at all," he said. "Martin's powers of diagnosis do him credit."

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