“This is a big matter,” said Martin.  “I told you that you had no business to come at all if you couldn’t look it squarely in the face.”

“If you want me to stay you had better be more decent to me, Martin.”

“It must be your own affair,” said Martin.

Thyme stood at the window, biting her lips to keep the tears back from her eyes.  A very pleasant voice behind her said:  “I do think it’s so splendid of you to come!”

A girl in grey was standing there—­thin, delicate, rather plain, with a nose ever so little to one side, lips faintly smiling, and large, shining, greenish eyes.

“I am Mary Daunt.  I live above you.  Have you had some tea?”

In the gentle question of this girl with the faintly smiling lips and shining eyes Thyme fancied that she detected mockery.

“Yes, thanks.  I want to be shown what my work’s to be, at once, please.”

The grey girl looked at Martin.

“Oh!  Won’t to-morrow do for all that sort of thing?  I’m sure you must be tired.  Mr. Stone, do make her rest!”

Martin’s glance seemed to say:  ‘Please leave your femininities!’

“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?”

The grey girl smiled.  “It is rather awful sometimes.  I’ve been at it six months now.  You get used to it.  I’ve had all the worst things said to me by now, I should think.”

Thyme shuddered.

“You see,” said the grey girl’s faintly smiling lips, “you soon get the feeling of having to go through with it.  We all realise it’s got to be done, of course.  Your cousin’s one of the best of us; nothing seems to put him out.  He has such a nice sort of scornful kindness.  I’d rather work with him than anyone.”