ws it by heart, and has decided, moreover,
the order of words by which it will be most lucidly developed.

"I know what blindness means to all men--a growing, narrowing egotism
unless one is perpetually on one's guard. And will one be perpetually on
one's guard? Blindness means that to all men," he repeated emphatically.
"But it must mean more to me, who am deprived of every occupation. If I
were a writer, I could still dictate. If I were a business man, I could
conduct my business. But I am a soldier, and not a clever soldier.
Jealousy, a continual and irritable curiosity--there is no Paul Pry like
your blind man--a querulous claim upon your attention--these are my
special dangers." And Ethne laughed gently in contradiction of his
argument.

"Well, perhaps one may hold them off," he acknowledged, "but they are to
be considered. I have considered them. I am not speaking to you without
thought. I have pondered and puzzled over the whole matter night after
night since I got your letter, wondering what I should do. You know how
gladly, with what gratitude, I would have answered you, 'Yes, let the
marriage go on,' if I dared. If I dared! But I think--don't you?--that a
great trouble rather clears one's wits. I used to lie awake at Cairo and
think; and the unimportant trivial considerations gradually dropped
away; and a few straight and simple truths stood out rather vividly.
One felt that one had to cling to them and with all one's might,
because nothing else was left."

"Yes, that I do understand," Ethne replied in a low voice. She had gone
through just such an experience herself. It might have been herself, and
not Durrance, who was speaking. She looked up at him, and for the first
time began to understand that after all she and he might have much in
common. She repeated over to herself with an even firmer determination,
"Two lives shall not be spoilt because of me."

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, here's one of the very straight and simple truths. Marriage
between a man crippled like myself, whose life is done, and a woman like
you, active and young, whose life is in its flower, would be quite wrong
unless each brought to it much more than friendship. It would be quite
wrong if it implied a sacrifice for you."

"It implies no sacrifice," she answered firmly.

Durrance nodded. It was evident that the answer contented him, and Ethne
felt that it was the intonation to which he listened rather than the
words. His very at