Robert leant across to her. He ached with his love and pity.
"Tired, Christine?"
"A little. But it has been worth while. You carried me so nicely—so big and strong."
She leant against Francey, nodding and smiling to reassure him. And presently she was asleep. He saw how Francey shifted her arm so that it encircled the bowed figure, and every ugly thing that had dogged him in that lonely, haunted walk vanished before the kind steadfastness of her eyes.
It was as though she had said aloud:
"We'll take care of her together. We won't let her die before we've made her very, very happy."
Then he took out a note-book and made a shaky sketch of a pompous, drunken-looking house with a huge door, on which were two brass plates, side by side, bearing the splendid inscriptions:
Dr. Frances Stonehouse, Robert Stonehouse,
M.D., F.R.C.S.
Hours 10—1
He showed it to her and they smiled at one another, and there was no one else in the carriage but themselves and their happiness.