“If you want me to stay you had better be more decent to me, Martin.”
“It must be your own affair,” said Martin.
Thyme stood at the window, biting her lips to keep the tears back from her eyes. A very pleasant voice behind her said: “I do think it's so splendid of you to come!”
A girl in grey was standing there—thin, delicate, rather plain, with a nose ever so little to one side, lips faintly smiling, and large, shining, greenish eyes.
“I am Mary Daunt. I live above you. Have you had some tea?”
In the gentle question of this girl with the faintly smiling lips and shining eyes Thyme fancied that she detected mockery.
“Yes, thanks. I want to be shown what my work's to be, at once, please.”
The grey girl looked at Martin.
“Oh! Won't to-morrow do for all that sort of thing? I'm sure you must be tired. Mr. Stone, do make her rest!”
Martin's glance seemed to say: 'Please leave your femininities!'