h other well enough to take as said. They did no more
than shake hands when they had spoken, and Ethne moved back into the
room.

"I will give you some tea," she said, "then we can talk."

"Yes, we must have a talk, mustn't we?" Durrance answered seriously. He
threw off his serious air, however, and chatted with good humour about
the details of his journey home. He even found a subject of amusement in
his sense of helplessness during the first days of his blindness; and
Ethne's apprehensions rapidly diminished. They had indeed almost
vanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly brought
them back.

"I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa," he said. "I don't know whether you
could read the letter."

"Quite well," said Ethne.

"I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writing
on it or merely on the blotting-pad," he continued with a laugh.
"Calder--of the Sappers--but you don't know him."

He shot the name out rather quickly, and it came upon Ethne with a shock
that he had set a trap to catch her. The curious stillness of his face
seemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness for
some start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray that
she knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she asked
herself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter was
sent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told her
nothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, the
expression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, however
close he held his tongue.

"I could read the letter without difficulty," she answered gently. "It
was the letter you would have written. But I had written to you before,
and of course your bad news could make no difference. I take back no
word of what I wrote."

Durrance sat with his hands upon his knees, leaning forward a little.
Again Ethne was at a loss. She could not tell from his manner or his
face whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again she
realised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been in
no doubt.

"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back," he said at length. "But
there is my point of view."

Ethne looked at him with apprehension.

"Yes?" she replied, and she strove to speak with unconcern. "Will you
tell me it?"

Durrance assented, and began in the deliberate voice of a man who has
thought out his subject, kno