"What—real spades!"
"Did you imagine we called a spoon a spade?" he said, a whit resentfully.
Eileen smiled. "No, but I can't imagine you using a common or garden spade."
"You are thinking of my hands." He looked at them, not without complacency, Eileen thought, as she herself wondered where he had got his long white fingers from. "But it is a couple of years ago," he explained. "It was hard work, I assure you."
"Did your mother know?" Eileen asked with a little whimsical look.
"Of course not. She would have been horrified."
"Well, but most people would be surprised."
"Yes. Put your muscle into an oar or a cricket bat and you are a hero; put your muscle into a spade and you are a madman."
"You think it's vice versa?" queried Eileen, ingenuously.
"Much more. At least," he stammered and coloured again, "I don't pose as a hero but simply—"