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th a spasm of pain. But she had no time to spare for any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with Captain Willoughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must take up again the responsibilities with which those five years had charged her, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task of forgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplish it--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had not forgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more than friendship into the marriage account. He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. He was so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet Captain Willoughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for an escape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was in front of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behind and at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, and Durrance himself barred the path to it. "Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?" "Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that he had gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said, noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait. "Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He _is_ blind." "One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What can I say to him?" "Say nothing!" Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as it seemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench. "Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voice made the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete. "It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us." "He sees nothing." Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of doubt. "Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still." "Why?" "He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude; she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a certain
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