Thyme turned quickly to the door. “Oh, well, I'll come,” and ran upstairs.
When they had purchased a postal order for ten shillings, placed it in the envelope addressed to Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, and passed the hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and Thorn, Martin said: “I'm going to see what that precious amateur has done about the baby. If he hasn't moved the girl, I expect to find things in a pretty mess.”
Thyme's face changed at once.
“Just remember,” she said, “that I don't want to go there. I don't see the good, when there's such a tremendous lot waiting to be done.”
“Every other case, except the one in hand!”
“It's not my case. You're so disgustingly unfair, Martin. I don't like those people.”
“Oh, you amateur!”
Thyme flushed crimson. “Look here!” she said, speaking with dignity, “I don't care what you call me, but I won't have you call Uncle Hilary an amateur.”
“What is he, then?”
“I like him.”