. ." she would
begin. She began now upon Martin. His mind wandered. He looked about
the little room and thought of Thurston. Why was he not more angry
about it all? He had pretended to be indignant, he had hated
Thurston as he stood there . . . But had he? Half of him hated him.
Then with a jerk Thurston's words came back to him: "There's two of
each of us, that's the truth of it." "Two of each of us . . ."
Sitting there, listening to Mrs. Alweed's voice that flowed like a
river behind him, he saw the two figures, saw them quite clearly and
distinctly, flesh and blood, even clothes and voices and smile. And
he knew that all his life these two figures had been growing,
waiting for the moment when he would recognise them. One figure was
the Martin whom he knew--brown, healthy, strong and sane; a figure
wearing his clothes, his own clothes, the tweeds and the cloths, the
brogues and the heavy boots, the soft untidy hats; the figure was
hard, definite, resolute, quarrelling, arguing, loving, joking,
swearing all in the sensible way. It was a figure that all the world
had understood, that had been drunk often enough, lent other men
money, been hard-up and extravagant and thoughtless.
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