le, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. He
contented himself with saying quietly:--

"You are not just to Ethne."

At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. She
recognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings of
courage, of her detractions of Ethne. Her words might be true or not,
they could achieve nothing. Durrance was always in the room with Ethne,
never upon the terrace with Mrs. Adair. She became conscious of her
degradation, and she fell to excuses.

"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiest
of lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me." It sounded
pitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, and
Durrance had turned towards her. She saw that his face lost something of
its sternness. He was standing quietly, prepared now to listen to what
she might wish to say. He remembered that in the old days when he could
see, he had always associated her with a dignity of carriage and a
reticence of speech. It seemed hardly possible that it was the same
woman who spoke to him now, and the violence of the contrast made him
ready to believe that there must be perhaps something to be said on her
behalf.

"Will you tell me?" he said gently.

"I was married almost straight from school. I was the merest girl. I
knew nothing, and I was married to a man of whom I knew nothing. It was
my mother's doing, and no doubt she thought that she was acting for the
very best. She was securing for me a position of a kind, and comfort and
release from any danger of poverty. I accepted what she said blindly,
ignorantly. I could hardly have refused, indeed, for my mother was an
imperious woman, and I was accustomed to obedience. I did as she told me
and married dutifully the man whom she chose. The case is common enough,
no doubt, but its frequency does not make it easier of endurance."

"But Mr. Adair?" said Durrance. "After all, I knew him. He was older, no
doubt, than you, but he was kind. I think, too, he cared for you."

"Yes. He was kindness itself, and he cared for me. Both things are true.
The knowledge that he did care for me was the one link, if you
understand. At the beginning I was contented, I suppose. I had a house
in town and another here. But it was dull," and she stretched out her
arms. "Oh, how dull it was! Do you know the little back streets in a
manufacturing town? Rows of small houses, side by side, with nothing to
reli