“I don't mind Hilary himself; I object to his type.”
“Well, he objects to yours,” said Thyme.
“I'm not so sure of that,” said Martin slowly; “he hasn't got character enough.”
Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes, said: “Well, I do think, of all the conceited persons I ever met you're the worst.”
Martin's nostril curled.
“Are you prepared,” he said, “to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you not?”
“I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!”
Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow. Retaining it luxuriously, he said: “Don't wander!”
Thyme tried to free her arm. “Let go!”
Martin was looking straight into her eyes. A flush had risen in his cheeks.