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.