excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkable
apprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and she
should be discovered.

"He is coming towards us," he whispered.

"Not a word, not a movement."

"Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosure
and towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watching
him with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stopped
actually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes were
upon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. Even
Ethne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt her
knowledge.

"Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he had
first used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shoulders
and turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne's
experience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in his
bearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in his
attitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with which
he swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening with
all his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus they
remained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenly
and took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this time
knew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some such
unexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merest
rustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby.

"I wonder where in the world she can be," said Durrance to himself
aloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not free
Captain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight.

"That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowed
to speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?"

"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told me
everything?"

"So far as I remember."

"And all that you have told me happened in the spring?"

"The spring of last year," said Willoughby.

"Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this feather
to me last summer?"

"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakin
after ibex."

"I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport."

"It wasn't bad."

Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with