me, of every kindly thought I
might keep of him. I wanted to be sure myself, and I wanted him to be
sure, that we should always be strangers now and--and afterwards," and
the last words she spoke in a whisper. Captain Willoughby did not
understand what she meant by them. It is possible that only Lieutenant
Sutch and Harry Feversham himself would have understood.

"I was sad and sorry enough when I had done it," she resumed. "Indeed,
indeed, I think I have always been sorry since. I think that I have
never at any minute during these five years quite forgotten that fourth
white feather and the quiet air of dignity with which he took it. But
to-day I am glad." And her voice, though low, rang rich with the fulness
of her pride. "Oh, very glad! For this was his thought, his deed. They
are both all his, as I would have them be. I had no share, and of that I
am very proud. He needed no woman's faith, no woman's encouragement."

"Yet he sent this back to you," said Willoughby, pointing in some
perplexity to the feather which Ethne held.

"Yes," she said, "yes. He knew that I should be glad to know." And
suddenly she held it close to her breast. Thus she sat for a while with
her eyes shining, until Willoughby rose to his feet and pointed to the
gap in the hedge by which they had entered the enclosure.

"By Jove! Jack Durrance," he exclaimed.

Durrance was standing in the gap, which was the only means of entering
or going out.

CHAPTER XVI

CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES

Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From the
moment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather which
had once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had no
thought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby into
that enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory on
the rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail of
Harry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in her
companion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August garden
of sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years,
during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with a
smile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they had
been perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durrance
at the entrance in the hedge.

"Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shut
tight for a moment wi