“Just remember,” she said, “that I don't want to go there. I don't see the good, when there's such a tremendous lot waiting to be done.” “Every other case, except the one in hand!” “It's not my case. You're so disgustingly unfair, Martin. I don't like those people.” “Oh, you amateur!” Thyme flushed crimson. “Look here!” she said, speaking with dignity, “I don't care what you call me, but I won't have you call Uncle Hilary an amateur.” “What is he, then?” “I like him.” “That's conclusive.” “Yes, it is.” Martin did not reply, looking sideways at Thyme with his queer, protective smile. They were passing through a street superior to Hound Street in its pretensions to be called a slum. “Look here!” he said suddenly; “a man like Hilary's interest in all this sort of thing is simply sentimental. It's on his nerves. He takes philanthropy just as he'd take sulphonal for sleeplessness.” Thyme looked shrewdly up at him. “Well,” she said, “it's just as much on your nerves. You see it from the point of view of health; he sees it from the point of view of sentiment, that's all.” “Oh! you think so?” “You just treat all these people as if they were in hospital.” The young man's nostrils quivered. “Well, and how should they be treated?” “How would you like to be looked at as a 'case'?” muttered Thyme. Martin moved his hand in a slow half-circle. “These houses and these people,” he said, “are in the way--in the way of you and me, and everyone.” 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. Thus, in the hypnotic silence of high thoughts, the two young “Sanitists” arrived in Hound Street. In the doorway of No. 1 the son of the lame woman, Mrs. Budgen--the thin, white youth as tall as Martin, but not so broad-stood, smoking a dubious-looking cigarette. He turned his lack-lustre, jeering gaze on the visitors. “Who d'you want?” he said. “If it's the girl, she's gone away, and left no address.” “I want Mrs. Hughs,” said Martin. The young man coughed. “Right-o! You'll find her; but for him, apply Wormwood Scrubs.” “Prison! What for?” “Stickin' her through the wrist with his bayonet;” and the young man let a long, luxurious fume of smoke trickle through his nose. “How horrible!” said Thyme. Martin regarded the young man, unmoved. “That stuff' you're smoking's rank,” he said. “Have some of mine; I'll show you how to make them. It'll save you one and three per pound of baccy, and won't rot your lungs.” Taking out his pouch, he rolled a cigarette. The white young man bent his dull wink on Thyme, who, wrinkling her nose, was pretending to be far away.