"I understand." The formal handshake once over, their fingers had not separated. She held in her large, strong, womanly palm the hand that was little, and hard, and boyish. It squeezed her fingers, and the squeeze was an apology. It said:
"I'd like you to have kissed me if there hadn't been lots of people looking. For, of course, you know I love you, Pat!"
"And I love you, Bawne. We'll always love each other, whatever happens," said the answering pressure. Her spoken utterance was:
"So these are your holidays! ... How did you leave them all at Charterhouse? And—are you still tremendous pals with young Roddy Wrynche?"
He said, with a naive, adorable gravity:
"Boys don't squabble like girls—and Wrynche is a frightfully decent fellow. We passed together from Shell into Under Fourth, and we've promised always to stand by each other!"
"Good egg! And now, how is it you're here? Has Uncle Owen given in at last about the flying?"
"Really and truly! Man alive!"—Bawne's characteristic expletive—"I've been up to-day in the air-'bus and—wasn't it first-class!"
"Honour?"
"Honour! Twice round the aërodrome with the Instructor—and presently I'm to have a longer flight with Mr. Sherbrand in his monoplane."