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Updated: May 1, 2025
Thyme's eyes followed that slow, sweeping movement of her cousin's hand. It seemed to fascinate her. "Yes, of course; I know," she murmured. "Something must be done!" And she reared her head up, looking from side to side, as if to show him that she, too, could sweep away things. Very straight, and solid, fair, and fresh, she looked just then.
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.
To Cecilia the extinction of the race seemed threatened; in reality her species of the race alone was vanishing, which to her, of course, was very much the same disaster. With her eyes on Stephen's boots she thought: 'How shall I prevent what I've heard from coming to Bianca's ears? I know how she would take it! How shall I prevent Thyme's hearing?
When Thyme, attended by the grey girl, emerged from the abyss at the top, her cheeks were flushed and her hands clenched. She said nothing. The grey girl, too, was silent, with a look such as a spirit divested of its body by long bathing in the river of reality might bend on one who has just come to dip her head. Thyme's quick eyes saw that look, and her colour deepened.
She seemed left behind. If young people were really becoming serious, if youths no longer cared about the colour of Thyme's eyes, or dress, or hair, what would there be left to care for that is, up to the point of definite relationship? Not that she wanted her daughter to be married. It would be time enough to think of that when she was twenty-five. But her own experiences had been so different.
At this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on Thyme's face was very queer. 'You don't trust me, it seemed to say, 'and you trust that girl. You put me here for her to watch over me!... "I 'want to send this telegram," she said Martin read the telegram. "You oughtn't to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do." Thyme crimsoned. "I'm not cold-blooded, like you."
The colour of Thyme's face deepened from rose to crimson. "No!" "Why not?" "Well those new " She could not bring out that word "clothes." It would have given her thoughts away. Hilary seemed making for their seat, but Miranda, aware of Martin, stopped. "A man of action!" she appeared to say. "The one who pulls my ears." And turning, as though unconscious, she endeavoured to lead Hilary away.
The two young people, both on their feet now, looked after him. Martin's face was a queer study of contemptuous compunction; Thyme's was startled, softened, almost tearful. "It won't do him any harm," muttered the young man. "It'll shake him up." Thyme flashed a vicious look at him. "I hate you sometimes," she said. "You're so coarse-grained your skin's just like leather."
Only that had seemed impossible, and something he must surely wait till he was grown up to do. But now, in a flash, as his fingers closed on Wild Thyme's hair, he knew that he could indeed do that, and anything else he really set his heart on. No girl, even a fairy, likes to have her hair pulled. So Wild Thyme was angry. She pinched Eric's arm with all her strength. Then he was angry.
"Martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so." "Faith and the mountain, I'm afraid." Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the little bulldog. "Oh, duckie!" But the little moonlight bulldog backed away. "I hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!" Hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic attitude.
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