She felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet she remembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him.
"See here, Lawrence," she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with each other, are we?"
"Why not?" he answered quietly. "I carry you toward your old life, you guide me toward mine. It's a fair business, with equal investment. I'm not complaining."
She was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of days at home with his work. As he lay there, she studied his hands. They were practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, the fingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength. She knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a piece of wood to heat water in, she had seen that. So they were sculptor's hands. What a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! She fell to wondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merely fancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by his blindness. She studied his face in repose. Then her mind came back to his hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin, and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had not carried her. She did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him made her restless. Suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her. The more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last she ventured, "Are you asleep?"
"No, dreaming."
"Lawrence."
"What is it?" He sat up and waited.
"What do you think of me?" She was surprised to find herself waiting eagerly for his answer.
He laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh.
"Claire," he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. You see, I haven't thought much about you. However, if you like, I'll study you for a week and report."