“The brute!” cried Thyme.
The young doctor muttered: “Done last night. Got any arnica?”
“No, Sir.”
“Of course not.” He laid a sixpence on the sill. “Get some and rub it in. Mind you don't break the skin.”
Thyme suddenly burst out: “Why don't you leave him, Mrs. Hughs? Why do you live with a brute like that?”
Martin frowned.
“Any particular row,” he said, “or only just the ordinary?”
Mrs. Hughs turned her face to the scanty fire. Her shoulders heaved spasmodically.
Thus passed three minutes, then she again began rubbing the soapy garment.
“If you don't mind, I'll smoke,” said Martin. “What's your baby's name? Bill? Here, Bill!” He placed his little finger in the baby's hand. “Feeding him yourself?”