ere's plenty of aestheticism about you and your
people--plenty of good intentions--but not an ounce of real business!"

"Don't abuse my people; they're just as kind as you!"

"Oh, they're kind enough, and they can see what's wrong. It's not that
which stops them. But your dad's a regular official. He's got so much
sense of what he ought not to do that he never does anything; Just as
Hilary's got so much consciousness of what he ought to do that he never
does anything. You went to that woman's this morning with your ideas of
helping her all cut and dried, and now that you find the facts aren't
what you thought, you're stumped!"

"One can't believe anything they say. That's what I hate. I thought
Hughs simply knocked her about. I didn't know it was her jealousy--"

"Of course you didn't. Do you imagine those people give anything away to
our sort unless they're forced? They know better."

"Well, I hate the whole thing--it's all so sordid!"

"O Lord!"

"Well, it is! I don't feel that I want to help a woman who can say and
feel such horrid things, or the girl, or any of them."

"Who cares what they say or feel? that's not the point. It's simply a
case of common sense: Your people put that girl there, and they must get
her to clear out again sharp. It's just a question of what's healthy."

"Well, I know it's not healthy for me to have anything to do with, and
I won't! I don't believe you can help people unless they want to be
helped."

Martin whistled.

"You're rather a brute, I think," said Thyme.

"A brute, not rather a brute. That's all the difference."

"For the worse!"

"I don't think so, Thyme!"

There was no answer.

"Look at me."

Very slowly Thyme turned her eyes.

"Well?"

"Are you one of us, or are you not?"

"Of course I am."

"You're not!"

"I am."

"Well, don't let's fight about it. Give me your hand."

He dropped his hand on hers. Her face had flushed rose colour. Suddenly
she freed herself. "Here's Uncle Hilary!"

It was indeed Hilary, with Miranda, trotting in advance. His hands were
crossed behind him, his face bent towards the ground. The two young
people on the bench sat looking at him.

"Buried in self-contemplation," murmured Martin; "that's the way he
always walks. I shall tell him about this!"

The colour of Thyme's face deepened from rose to crimson.

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Well--those new---" She could not bring out that word "clothes." It
would have given her t