At last it was over. Now she could see the angle of the broken collar-bone, and from it a great bruise, purple and yellow, tracking down into the axilla. She washed him, passing gently over the bruised area. When she had finished he thanked her. “This is not a woman’s work,” he said.
“Oh, but it is,” she smiled.
“Perhaps I am wrong. It is many years since I have spoken to a woman. I live a very solitary life. Even before I had the misfortune to lose my arm.” It was funny to see how his little self-consciousness showed itself.
Now she was anxious to rescue his very awful shirt; for she had decided that it would be easy to fit him out in one of James’s until it was clean. He was almost as anxious about that as he had been about the rifle. He didn’t want to offend her; but for all his gentleness he was determined to get it back.
“But we must wash it,” she said. “What is the matter with you?”
“You can have it, but . . . did you notice that there’s a big pocket in the left breast? Yes . . . that’s it. Will you be kind enough to look in it. There’s a wee packet of papers in a waterproof cover. That’s what I want. It’s very near the only thing in my gear that I’ve saved. It has only a personal value.” He paused and then modestly added: “It’s the fruits of several adventurous years. It’s a book—”
He looked at her very narrowly. She could see now that his eyes were of a very clear blue-grey. In the lamplight they sparkled like the eyes of a bird. Then he smiled.
“I may tell you,” he said, “that you are the first human being I have ever told that to . . . and there aren’t many . . . who would not have thought it rather a joke.”
“But that would be ridiculous,” she said. “For I don’t know you. When I come to think of it, I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m called Hare,” he said, “Charles Hare. It’s possible you’ve heard the name. Not probable you’ve heard any good of it.” It sounded as if he were trying to make the best of it himself.