hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:--

"You are going back to Glenalla?"

"Yes."

"You will live there alone?"

"Yes."

For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked
round to the back of her chair.

"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was
broken off."

"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you
knew."

"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for
news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know
nothing definite. I should like you to tell me."

Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.
"Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance
broke it again.

"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt
then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some
little while. I do not think that I will stay there--in any case. I mean
even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla."

Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are
neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of.
We should be prudent."

"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, "but the right kind of
prudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good
deal."

Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him,
so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she
remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a
question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice.

"Do you want me so very much?" And before he could answer she turned
quickly towards him. "Try not to," she exclaimed earnestly. "For this
one year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try to
forget me altogether;" and there was just sufficient regret in her tone,
the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all the
sting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but for
her fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in very
different words. Mrs. Adair came into the room before he could reply,
and thus he carried away with him his delusion.

He dined that evening at his club, and sat afterwards smoking his cigar
under the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in his
vain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort of