The touch was soothing, and he bore it patiently enough. After a moment she lifted the hand with a little exclamation of reproof.
“You degenerate person! You have ceased to manicure. What has become of my excellent training?”
Chilcote laughed. “Run to seed,” he said, lightly. Then his expression and tone changed. “When a man gets to my age,” he added, “little social luxuries don't seem worth while; the social necessities are irksome enough. Personally, I envy the beggar in the street—exempt from shaving, exempt from washing—”
Lillian raised her delicate eyebrows. The sentiment was beyond her perception.
“But manicuring,” she said, reproachfully, “when you have such nice hands. It was your hands and your eyes, you know, that first appealed to me.” She sighed gently, with a touch of sentimental remembrance. “And I thought it so strong of you not to wear rings—it must be such a temptation.” She looked down at her own fingers, glittering with jewels.
But the momentary pleasure of her touch was gone. Chilcote drew away his hand and picked up the book that lay between them.
“Other Men's Shoes!” he read. “A novel, of course?”
She smiled. “Of course. Such a fantastic story. Two men changing identities.”
Chilcote rose and walked back to the mantel-piece.
“Changing identities?” he said, with a touch of interest.