'Poor little thing!' he thought; 'be careful of her, comfort her!' Hardness seemed so broken out of her, and the night so wonderful! And there came into the young man's heart a throb of the knowledge—very rare with him, for he was not, like Hilary, a philosophising person—that she was as real as himself—suffering, hoping, feeling, not his hopes and feelings, but her own. His fingers kept pressing her shoulder through her thin blouse. And the touch of those fingers was worth more than any words, as this night, all moonlit dreams, was worth more than a thousand nights of sane reality.
Thyme twisted herself away from him at last. “I can't,” she sobbed. “I'm not what you thought me—I'm not made for it!”
A scornful little smile curled Martin's lip. So that was it! But the smile soon died away. One did not hit what was already down!
Thyme's voice wailed through the silence. “I thought I could—but I want beautiful things. I can't bear it all so grey and horrible. I'm not like that girl. I'm-an-amateur!”
'If I kissed her—-' Martin thought.
She sank down again, burying her face in the dark beech-mat. The moonlight had passed on. Her voice came faint and stiffed, as out of the tomb of faith. “I'm no good. I never shall be. I'm as bad as mother!”
But to Martin there was only the scent of her hair.
“No,” murmured Thyme's voice, “I'm only fit for miserable Art.... I'm only fit for—nothing!”
They were so close together on the dark beech mat that their bodies touched, and a longing to clasp her in his arms came over him.
“I'm a selfish beast!” moaned the smothered voice. “I don't really care for all these people—I only care because they're ugly for me to see!”