as the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, I
alone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But you
will not say--you will not say." She struck her hands together with a
gesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walked
silently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened his
pace a little, so that Mrs. Adair had to walk fast to keep up with him.
That quickening of the pace was a sort of answer, but Mrs. Adair was not
deterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her.

"I do not think I would have minded so much," she continued, "if Ethne
had really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friend
cares, just a mere friend. And what's friendship worth?" she asked
scornfully.

"Something, surely," said Durrance.

"It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend," cried Mrs.
Adair. "She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are
blind. She is afraid. While I--I will tell you the truth--I am glad.
When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was
glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been
glad--quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she
shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered," and the
scorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk
to a whisper. "I am not afraid," she said, and she repeated the words
passionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid."

To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible had
ever occurred as this outburst by the woman who was Ethne's friend,
nothing so unforeseen.

"Ethne wrote to you at Wadi Halfa out of pity," she went on, "that was
all. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of what
she had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she was
afraid. You would not have blamed her, if she had frankly admitted it;
you would have remained her friend. But she had not the courage."

Durrance knew that there was another explanation of Ethne's hesitations
and timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the true
one. But to-morrow he himself would be gone from the Salcombe estuary,
and Ethne would be on her way to the Irish Channel and Donegal. It was
not worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he was
close upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from the
fields. Once across that sti