Still gazing absently across the meadow, she extended her hand. I retained it for a moment, then released it. Her arm fell inert by her side, but mine tingled to the shoulder.
“And one more thing,” I said, while this strange and curious reluctance to let her go was now steadily invading me.
“Yes?”
“Will you wear a comrade’s token — in memory of an hour or two with him?”
“What!”
She spoke with a quick intake of breath and her grey eyes were on me now, piercing me to the roots of speech and motive.
I wore a heavy ring beaten out of gold; Guy Johnson gave it. This I took from my trembling finger, scarce knowing why I was doing it at all, and stooping and lifting her little, wind-roughened hand, put it on the first finger I encountered —