“But, poor hand. Give it me, June. Ah, now I have both your hands—so much and yet so little.”
“No, don’t press it like that, you are hurting.”
“How much would you give me of yours?”
“Of mine? Why? Well, I haven’t very much to give. But if you like, I’ll give you a brooch of my mother’s which is broken so as I can’t use it. You will remember me by that. But I expect you have a bad memory, John.”
“Only when I have nothing to remember.”
“What shall I give you, then?”
“What you like best.”
“And what will you give me?”
“A ring, and more, perhaps.”
“You are nice, John.”