of lunch appealed to him particularly at
that moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorable
command. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from the
shore.

"It's a little bit rough on me too, perhaps, Miss Eustace," he said.
Ethne laughed, and returned to the terrace with Mrs. Adair. Once or
twice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion's
view a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clear
and rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of Captain
Willoughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would not
have expected one. It was her business and only hers.

CHAPTER XVII

THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE

Mrs. Adair, on her side, asked for no explanations. She was naturally,
behind her pale and placid countenance, a woman of a tortuous and
intriguing mind. She preferred to look through a keyhole even when she
could walk straight in at the door; and knowledge which could be gained
by a little maneuvering was always more desirable and precious in her
eyes than any information which a simple question would elicit. She
avoided, indeed, the direct question on a perverted sort of principle,
and she thought a day very well spent if at the close of it she had
outwitted a companion into telling her spontaneously some trivial and
unimportant piece of news which a straightforward request would have at
once secured for her at breakfast-time.

Therefore, though she was mystified by the little white feather upon
which Ethne seemed to set so much store, and wondered at the good news
of Harry Feversham which Captain Willoughby had brought, and vainly
puzzled her brains in conjecture as to what in the world could have
happened on that night at Ramelton so many years ago, she betrayed
nothing whatever of her perplexity all through lunch; on the contrary,
she plied her guest with conversation upon indifferent topics. Mrs.
Adair could be good company when she chose, and she chose now. But it
was not to any purpose.

"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" she
exclaimed.

Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty. She betook herself to her room as soon
as lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude.
Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughby
had told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to music
divinely played. The regret that he had not come home and told it a year
ago,