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 and darted after Hilary.
Martin impassively looked after her. Taking out his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, slowly pressing the golden threads down into the bowl with his little finger.