“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.”