The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sitting-room. Martin was standing in the doorway.
Thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly. “I've come, you see. What made you choose this place?”
“I'm next door but two; and there's a girl here—one of us. She'll show you the ropes.”
“Is she a lady?”
Martin raised his shoulders. “She is what is called a lady,” he said; “but she's the right sort, all the same. Nothing will stop her.”
At this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on Thyme's face was very queer. 'You don't trust me,' it seemed to say, 'and you trust that girl. You put me here for her to watch over me!...'
“I 'want to send this telegram,” she said
Martin read the telegram. “You oughtn't to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do.”
Thyme crimsoned. “I'm not cold-blooded, like you.”
“This is a big matter,” said Martin. “I told you that you had no business to come at all if you couldn't look it squarely in the face.”