“If you mean business, your work will be the same as hers,” he said; “you're not qualified. All you can do will be visiting, noting the state of the houses and the condition of the children.”
The girl in grey said gently: “You see, we only deal with sanitation and the children. It seems hard on the grown people and the old to leave them out; but there's sure to be so much less money than we want, so that it must all go towards the future.”
There was a silence. The girl with the shining eyes added softly: “1950!”
“1950!” repeated Martin. It seemed to be some formula of faith.
“I must send this telegram!” muttered Thyme.
Martin took it from her and went out.
Left alone in the little room, the two girls did not at first speak. The girl in grey was watching Thyme half timidly, as if she could not tell what to make of this young creature who looked so charming, and kept shooting such distrustful glances.
“I think it's so awfully sweet of you to come,” she said at last. “I know what a good time you have at home; your cousin's often told me. Don't you think he's splendid?”
To that question Thyme made no answer.
“Isn't this work horrid,” she said—“prying into people's houses?”