She had not expected any answer, and I had none ready. I was thinking—Heaven help me—that there were things I would not forget if I could: the lift of her lashes as she looked up at me; the few words we had had together, the day she had told me the deck was not clean; the night I had touched her hand with my lips.
“We are to be released, I believe,” she said, “on our own—some legal term; I forget it.”
“Recognizance, probably.”
“Yes. You do not know law as well as medicine?”
“I am sorry—no; and I know very little medicine.”
“But you sewed up a wound!”
“As a matter of fact,” I admitted, “that was my initial performance, and it is badly done. It—it puckers.”
She turned on me a trifle impatiently.
“Why do you make such a secret of your identity?” she demanded. “Is it a pose? Or—have you a reason for concealing it?”
“It is not a pose; and I have nothing to be ashamed of, unless poverty—”