"Of course. But I write such bone-headed boob letters, Skipper."
"I won't care what they're like, Jimsy, so long as you tell me things."
"Gee ... I'm going to be lost up there without you, Skipper."
"You'll have Carter, dear."
"I know. That'll help a lot. Honestly, I don't know how a fellow with a head like his puts up with me. He forgets more every night when he goes to sleep than I'll ever know. He's a wonder. Yes, it sure—will help a lot to have Carter. But it won't be you."
"Jimsy, have you told—your father?"
He nodded. "Last night. He was—he's been feeling great these last few days. He was sitting at his desk, looking over some old letters and papers, and I went in and—and told him."
"What did he say?"
"He didn't say anything at first. He just sat still for a long time, staring at the things he'd been reading. And then he got out a little old leather box that he said was my mother's and unlocked it and took out a ring." Jimsy thrust a hand deep into a trouser pocket and brought out a twist of tissue paper, yellowed and broken with age. He unwrapped it and laid a slender gold ring on Honor's palm.
"Jimsy!" It was an exquisite bit of workmanship, cunningly carved and chased, with a look of mellow age. There were two clasped hands,—not the meaningless models for wedding cakes, slim, tapering, faultless, but two cleverly vital looking hands, a man's and a woman's, the one rugged and strong, the other slender and firm, and the wrists, masculine and feminine, merging at the opposite side of the circle into one. "Oh ..." Honor breathed, "it's wonderful...."