may-tree it is an unending meeting-place of young solemn things eager to find out what they are, eager to rush forth to greet the kisses of the wind and sun, and for ever trembling back and hiding their faces.  The spirit of that wood seems to lie with her ear close to the ground, a pale petal of a hand curved like a shell behind it, listening for the whisper of her own life.  There she lies, white and supple, with dewy, wistful eyes, sighing:  ’What is my meaning?  Ah, I am everything!  Is there in all the world a thing so wonderful as I?...  Oh, I am nothing—­my wings are heavy; I faint, I die!’

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 saw, too, the glance of the Jewish youth when Martin joined them in the doorway.

‘Two girls now,’ he seemed to say.  ‘He goes it, this young man!’

Supper was laid in her new friend’s room—­pressed beef, potato salad, stewed prunes, and ginger ale.  Martin and the grey girl talked.  Thyme ate in silence, but though her eyes seemed fastened on her plate, she saw every glance that passed between them, heard every word they said.  Those glances were not remarkable, nor were those words particularly important, but they were spoken in tones that seemed important to Thyme.  ’He never talks to me like that,’ she thought.

When supper was over they went out into the streets to walk, but at the door the grey girl gave Thyme’s arm a squeeze, her cheek a swift kiss, and turned back up the stairs.

“Aren’t you coming?” shouted Martin.

Her voice was heard answering from above:  “No, not tonight.”

With the back of her hand Thyme rubbed off the kiss.  The two cousins walked out amongst the traffic.

The evening was very warm and close; no breeze fanned the reeking town.  Speaking little, they wandered among endless darkening streets, whence to return to the light and traffic of the Euston Road seemed like coming back to Heaven.  At last, close again to her new home, Thyme said:  “Why should one bother?  It’s all a horrible great machine, trying to blot us out; people are like insects when you put your thumb on them and smear them on a book.  I hate—­I loathe it!”

“They might as well be healthy insects while they last,” answered Martin.

Thyme faced round at him.  “I shan’t sleep tonight, Martin; get out my bicycle for me.”

Martin scrutinised her by the light of the street lamp.  “All right,” he said; “I’ll come too.”