Martin moved his hand in a slow half-circle.
“These houses and these people,” he said, “are in the way—in the way of you and me, and everyone.”
Thyme's eyes followed that slow, sweeping movement of her cousin's hand. It seemed to fascinate her.
“Yes, of course; I know,” she murmured. “Something must be done!”
And she reared her head up, looking from side to side, as if to show him that she, too, could sweep away things. Very straight, and solid, fair, and fresh, she looked just then.
Thus, in the hypnotic silence of high thoughts, the two young “Sanitists” arrived in Hound Street.
In the doorway of No. 1 the son of the lame woman, Mrs. Budgen—the thin, white youth as tall as Martin, but not so broad-stood, smoking a dubious-looking cigarette. He turned his lack-lustre, jeering gaze on the visitors.
“Who d'you want?” he said. “If it's the girl, she's gone away, and left no address.”
“I want Mrs. Hughs,” said Martin.
The young man coughed. “Right-o! You'll find her; but for him, apply Wormwood Scrubs.”