n to her! In a very short
while I was sad and sorry that you had ever come into my life."

"I knew nothing of this," said Durrance. "I never suspected. I am
sorry."

"I took care you should not suspect," said Mrs. Adair. "But I tried to
keep you; with all my wits I tried. No match-maker in the world ever
worked so hard to bring two people together as I did to bring together
Ethne and Mr. Feversham, and I succeeded."

The statement came upon Durrance with a shock. He leaned back against
the stile and could have laughed. Here was the origin of the whole sad
business. From what small beginnings it had grown! It is a trite
reflection, but the personal application of it is apt to take away the
breath. It was so with Durrance as he thought himself backwards into
those days when he had walked on his own path, heedless of the people
with whom he came in touch, never dreaming that they were at that moment
influencing his life right up to his dying day. Feversham's disgrace and
ruin, Ethne's years of unhappiness, the wearying pretences of the last
few months, all had their origin years ago when Mrs. Adair, to keep
Durrance to herself, threw Feversham and Ethne into each other's
company.

"I succeeded," continued Mrs. Adair. "You told me that I had succeeded
one morning in the Row. How glad I was! You did not notice it, I am
sure. The next moment you took all my gladness from me by telling me you
were starting for the Soudan. You were away three years. They were not
happy years for me. You came back. My husband was dead, but Ethne was
free. Ethne refused you, but you went blind and she claimed you. You can
see what ups and downs have fallen to me. But these months here have
been the worst."

"I am very sorry," said Durrance. Mrs. Adair was quite right, he
thought. There was indeed something to be said on her behalf. The world
had gone rather hardly with her. He was able to realise what she had
suffered, since he was suffering in much the same way himself. It was
quite intelligible to him why she had betrayed Ethne's secret that night
upon the terrace, and he could not but be gentle with her.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Adair," he repeated lamely. There was nothing
more which he could find to say, and he held out his hand to her.

"Good-bye," she said, and Durrance climbed over the stile and crossed
the fields to his house.

Mrs. Adair stood by that stile for a long while after he had gone. She
had shot her bolt and hit no on