squint in the other. When you see a dying donkey in a field, you don't
want to refer the case to a society, as your dad would; you don't want
an essay of Hilary's, full of sympathy with everybody, on 'Walking in a
field: with reflections on the end of donkeys'--you want to put a bullet
in the donkey."

"You're always down on Uncle Hilary," said Thyme.

"I don't mind Hilary himself; I object to his type."

"Well, he objects to yours," said Thyme.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Martin slowly; "he hasn't got character
enough."

Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes,
said: "Well, I do think, of all the conceited persons I ever met you're
the worst."

Martin's nostril curled.

"Are you prepared," he said, "to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you
not?"

"I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!"

Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow.
Retaining it luxuriously, he said: "Don't wander!"

Thyme tried to free her arm. "Let go!"