She
laid her hand in his and he bent his head to kiss it.
"You do trust me, Francey?"
"Trust you?"
"You don't think it's weak of me to love you? You know I'll pass my
finals, don't you--that I'll be all right? People might think I hadn't
the right to love you till I was sure. But, then, I am sure--dead
sure."
"I'm sure, too." Her voice sounded brooding, a little husky. She took
his hand and laid it on her lap, spreading out the fingers as though to
examine each one in turn. "It's a clever, beautiful hand, Robert--much
the most beautiful part of you. It will do clever, wonderful things.
What will _you_ do?"
(As though, he thought, his hands were something apart and she was
inquiring deeper into what was vitally him.)
He told her. It reassured him to go back to his foundations and to
find them still standing. He lost his tongue-tied clumsiness and spoke
rapidly, clearly, with brief, strong gestures. His haggard youth gave
place to a forcible, aggressive maturity. He was like an architect who
had planned for every inch and stone of his masterpiece. Next year he
would pass his finals. He would take posts as locum tenens whenever he
could and keep his hospital connexions warm. In five years he would
save enough to specialize--the throat gave wide opportunities for
research. There were men already interested in him who would send him
work. In ten years Harley Street--if not before.
In the midst of it all he faltered and broke off to ask:
"Why do you love me, Francey?"
And then, impulsively, she flung her arm about him and drew him close
to her.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181