She looked down at her hands then and Caryll's gaze followed hers. They were wonderful hands, every finger a psychic index.
"Some day I'll let you hold one for a little," she said, moving them slightly. "You can judge for yourself what they're like then."
He was conscious of the most curious of thrills. It coursed through him from head to toes. It stimulated him, wonderfully. It redoubled his courage.
"Adieu, ordinary rules!" his heart cried. "To the front and fire!" And his voice said: "Has Kneedrock ever held them?"
"Oh, yes. Ever so many have. I'm making a study of holding hands. Some men keep boring into your palm with their thumb, and some like to grind all your knuckle-bones together, crosswise. They never seem to think how the woman may feel."
"I fancy, under such circumstances, if I were you, I should say something," said Sir Caryll, laughing.
She looked at him, seriously. "What, for instance?"
"'Oh, you hurt! Let go!'"
"I'll try to remember," she said, without a smile. "You think that is better than just bearing it?"
"Yes. Unless you like it."