With his usual cool, high-handed air he entered his aunt's house, and asked for Thyme. Faithful to his definite, if somewhat crude theory, that Stephen and Cecilia and all their sort were amateurs, he never inquired for them, though not unfrequently he would, while waiting, stroll into 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!”