That's about the
colour of it, isn't it?"
Martin said nothing. That was exactly "the colour of it."
"Yes, well," Thurston continued, a faint flush on his pale cheeks.
"Of course I know that all right. And I'll tell you the idea that I
might 'ave of you--only might 'ave, mind you. Why, that you're a
stuck-up ignorant sort of feller, that's been rolling up and down
all over Europe, gets a bit of money, comes over and bullies his
father, thinks 'e knows better than every one about things 'e knows
nothing about whatever--"
"Look here, Thurston," Martin interrupted, stepping forward. "I tell
you I don't care a two-penny curse what a man like--"
"I only said might, mind you," said Thurston, smiling. "It's only a
short-sighted fool would think that of you really. And I'm not a
fool. No, really, I'm not. I've got quite another idea of you. My
idea is that you're one of us whether you want to be or not, and
that you always will be one of us. That's why I like you and will be
a friend to you too."
"I tell you I don't want your damned friendship," Martin cried. "I
don't want to have anything to do with you or your opinion or your
plans or anything else.
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