For a moment she was silent. And when she looked at him her eyes were no longer smiling.
"You kept it like that——?"
"I wouldn't even wash it. I hid it. It's got dirtier and dirtier."
"It must be horribly germy, Robert. We'll wash it together. As members of the medical profession we couldn't have it on our conscience——"
They laughed then, freely, out of the depth of their happiness. She laid her hand in his and he bent his head to kiss it.
"You do trust me, Francey?"
"Trust you?"
"You don't think it's weak of me to love you? You know I'll pass my finals, don't you—that I'll be all right? People might think I hadn't the right to love you till I was sure. But, then, I am sure—dead sure."
"I'm sure, too." Her voice sounded brooding, a little husky. She took his hand and laid it on her lap, spreading out the fingers as though to examine each one in turn. "It's a clever, beautiful hand, Robert—much the most beautiful part of you. It will do clever, wonderful things. What will you do?"
(As though, he thought, his hands were something apart and she was inquiring deeper into what was vitally him.)