Cecilia's drawing-room, and let his sarcastic glance sweep
over the pretty things she had collected, or, lounging in some luxurious
chair, cross his long legs, and fix his eyes on the ceiling.

Thyme soon came down. She wore a blouse of some blue stuff bought
by Cecilia for the relief of people in the Balkan States, a skirt of
purplish tweed woven by Irish gentlewomen in distress, and held in her
hand an open envelope addressed in Cecilia's writing to Mrs. Tallents
Smallpeace.

"Hallo!" she said.

Martin answered by a look that took her in from head to foot.

"Get on a hat! I haven't got much time. That blue thing's new."

"It's pure flax. Mother bought it."

"It's rather decent. Hurry up!"

Thyme raised her chin; that lazy movement showed her round, creamy neck
in all its beauty.

"I feel rather slack," she said; "besides, I must get back to dinner,
Martin."

"Dinner!"

Thyme turned quickly to the door. "Oh, well, I'll come," and ran
upstairs.

When they had purchased a postal order for ten shillings, placed it
in the envelope addressed to Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, and passed the
hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and Thorn, Martin said: "I'm going to see
what that precious amateur has done about the baby. If he hasn't moved
the girl, I expect to find things in a pretty mess."

Thyme's face changed at once.

"Just remember," she said, "that I don't want to go there. I don't see
the good, when there's such a tremendous lot waiting to be done."

"Every other case, except the one in hand!"

"It's not my case. You're so disgustingly unfair, Martin. I don't like
those people."

"Oh, you amateur!"

Thyme flushed crimson. "Look here!" she said, speaking with dignity, "I
don't care what you call me, but I won't have you call Uncle Hilary an
amateur."

"What is he, then?"

"I like him."

"That's conclusive."

"Yes, it is."

Martin did not reply, looking sideways at Thyme with his queer,
protective smile. They were passing through a street superior to Hound
Street in its pretensions to be called a slum.

"Look here!" he said suddenly; "a man like Hilary's interest in all
this sort of thing is simply sentimental. It's on his nerves. He takes
philanthropy just as he'd take sulphonal for sleeplessness."

Thyme looked shrewdly up at him.

"Well," she said, "it's just as much on your nerves. You see it from the
point of view of health; he sees it from the point of view of sentiment,
that's all."

"Oh