On a railing, stretching out his long legs and observing the passers-by, sat her cousin, Martin Stone. He got down as she came up.
“Late again,” he said. “Come on!”
“Where are we going first?” Thyme asked.
“The Notting Hill district's all we can do to-day if we're to go again to Mrs. Hughs'. I must be down at the hospital this afternoon.”
Thyme frowned. “I do envy you living by yourself, Martin. It's silly having to live at home.”
Martin did not answer, but one nostril of his long nose was seen to curve, and Thyme acquiesced in this without remark. They walked for some minutes between tall houses, looking about them calmly. Then Martin said: “All Purceys round here.”
Thyme nodded. Again there was silence; but in these pauses there was no embarrassment, no consciousness apparently that it was silence, and their eyes—those young, impatient, interested eyes—were for ever busy observing.
“Boundary line. We shall be in a patch directly.”
“Black?” asked Thyme.
“Dark blue—black farther on.”