"Well, as he isn't here—" said Martin fiercely.
"No use me waiting? Quite so. All the same I'm going to wait."
The two figures were strangely contrasted, Martin red-brown with health, thick and square, Thurston pale with a spotted complexion, dim and watery eyes, legs and arms like sticks, his black clothes shabby and his boots dusty.
Nevertheless at that moment it was Thurston who had the power. He moved forward from the window. "Makes you fair sick to see me anywhere about the 'ouse, doesn't it? Oh, I know ... You can't kid me. I've seen from the first. You fair loathe the sight of me."
"That's nothing to do with it," said Martin uneasily. "Whether we like one another or not, there's no need to discuss it."
"Oh, isn't there?" said Thurston, coming a little closer so that he was standing now directly under the light of the candle. "Why not? Why shouldn't we? What's the 'arm? I believe in discussing things myself. I do really. I've said to myself a long way back. 'Well, now, the first time I get 'im alone I'll ask him why 'e does dislike me. I've always been civil to him,' I says to myself, 'and yet I can't please him—so I'll just ask him straight.'"
Martin shrugged his shoulders; he wanted to leave the room, but something in Thurston held him there.
"I suppose we aren't the sort to get on together. We haven't got enough in common," he said clumsily.
"I don't know about that," Thurston said in a friendly conversational tone. "I shouldn't wonder if we've got more in common than you'd fancy. Now I'll tell you right out, I like you. I've always liked you, and what's more I always shall. Whatever you do—"
"I don't care," broke in Martin angrily, "whether you like me or not."