This same afternoon Thyme, wheeling a bicycle and carrying a light valise, was slipping into a back street out of the Old Square.
Putting her burden down at the pavement's edge, she blew a whistle.
A hansom-cab appeared, and a man in ragged clothes, who seemed to spring out of the pavement, took hold of her valise. His lean, unshaven face was full of wolfish misery.
"Get off with you!" the cabman said.
"Let him do it!" murmured Thyme.
The cab-runner hoisted up the trunk, then waited motionless beside the cab.
Thyme handed him two coppers. He looked at them in silence, and went away.
'Poor man,' she thought; 'that's one of the things we've got to do away with!'
The cab now proceeded in the direction of the Park, Thyme following on her bicycle, and trying to stare about her calmly.
'This,' she thought, 'is the end of the old life. I won't be romantic, and imagine I'm doing anything special; I must take it all as a matter of course.' She thought of Mr. Purcey's face--'that person!'--if he could have seen her at this moment turning her back on comfort. 'The moment I get there,' she mused, 'I shall let mother know; she can come out to-morrow, and see for herself. I can't have hysterics about my disappearance, and all that. They must get used to the idea that I mean to be in touch with things. I can't be stopped by what anybody thinks!'
An approaching motor-car brought a startled frown across her brow.
Was it 'that person'? But though it was not Mr. Purcey and his A.i.
Damyer, it was somebody so like him as made no difference. Thyme uttered a little laugh.
In the Park a cool light danced and glittered on the trees and water, and the same cool, dancing glitter seemed lighting the girl's eyes.
The cabman, unseen, took an admiring look at her. 'Nice little bit, this!' it said.
'Grandfather bathes here,' thought Thyme. 'Poor darling! I pity everyone that's old.'
The cab passed on under the shade of trees out into the road.
'I wonder if we have only one self in us,' thought Thyme.
'I sometimes feel that I have two--Uncle Hilary would understand what I mean. The pavements are beginning to smell horrid already, and it's only June to-morrow. Will mother feel my going very much? How glorious if one didn't feel!'
The cab turned into a narrow street of little shops.
'It must be dreadful to have to serve in a small shop. What millions of people there are in the world! Can anything be of any use?
Martin says what matters is to do one's job; but what is one's job?'
The cab emerged into a broad, quiet square.
'But I'm not going to think of anything,' thought Thyme; 'that's fatal. Suppose father stops my allowance; I should have to earn my living as a typist, or something of that sort; but he won't, when he sees I mean it. Besides, mother wouldn't let him.'
The cab entered the Euston Road, and again the cabman's broad face was turned towards Thyme with an inquiring stare.
'What a hateful road!' Thyme thought. 'What dull, ugly, common-looking faces all the people seem to have in London! as if they didn't care for anything but just to get through their day somehow.
I've only seen two really pretty faces!'
The cab stopped before a small tobacconist's on the south side of the road.
'Have I got to live here?' thought Thyme.
Through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. She raised her bicycle and wheeled it in. AJewish-looking youth emerging from the shop accosted her.
"Your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until he comes."His warm red-brown eyes dwelt on her lovingly. "Shall I take your luggage up, miss?""Thank you; I can manage."
"It's the first floor," said the young man.
The little rooms which Thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat.
Putting her trunk down in her bedroom, which looked out on a bare yard, she went into the sitting-room and threw the window up. Down below the cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation. Thyme caught the expression on their faces--a sort of leering curiosity.
'How disgusting and horrible men are!' she thought, moodily staring at the traffic. All seemed so grim, so inextricable, and vast, out there in the grey heat and hurry, as though some monstrous devil were sporting with a monstrous ant-heap. The reek of petrol and of dung rose to her nostrils. It was so terribly big and hopeless; it was so ugly! 'I shall never do anything,' thought Thyme-'never--never! Why doesn't Martin come?'
She went into her bedroom and opened her valise. With the scent of lavender that came from it, there sprang up a vision of her white bedroom at home, and the trees of the green garden and the blackbirds on the grass.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sitting-room. Martin was standing in the doorway.
Thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly. "I've come, you see.
What made you choose this place?"
"I'm next door but two; and there's a girl here--one of us. She'll show you the ropes.""Is she a lady?"
Martin raised his shoulders. "She is what is called a lady," he said; "but she's the right sort, all the same. Nothing will stop her."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.""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.
