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Updated: June 17, 2025
But it was the violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touched the strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away from her in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she sat motionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, taking her keys, unlocked a drawer.
He was apologising for his blindness, which had hindered him from inquiring. She began to wake to the comprehension that it was really Durrance who was speaking to her, but he continued to speak, and what he said drove her quite out of all caution. "I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him of Harry Feversham, and how I had seen him at Tewfikieh.
He looked at Durrance a man so trained to vigour and activity that his very sunburn seemed an essential quality rather than an accident of the country in which he lived; a man, too, who came to the wild, uncitied places of the world with the joy of one who comes into an inheritance; a man to whom these desolate tracts were home, and the fireside and the hedged fields and made roads merely the other places; and he understood the magnitude of the calamity which had befallen him.
Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story would enlighten him, and he must not be enlightened." "Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant to have the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave it to him at once very simply. "I am engaged to Colonel Durrance," she said.
"It was on the night before I started eastward into the desert for the last time," said Durrance, and the deep longing and regret with which he dwelt upon that "last time" for once left Ethne quite untouched. "Yes," she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn't it? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if you can tell me."
He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he recognised, and he set himself to guard against it. "I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you," he said.
I knew that it was about the time one might expect to find you in London. You have seen, I suppose?" "What?" asked Durrance. "Then you haven't," replied Mather. He picked up the newspaper which Durrance had dropped and turned over the sheets, searching for the piece of news which he required. "You remember that last reconnaissance we made from Suakin?" "Very well."
"Are Harry Feversham and his wife in town?" Mrs. Adair was slow to reply. "Not yet," she said, after a pause, but immediately she corrected herself, and said a little hurriedly, "I mean the marriage never took place." Durrance was not a man easily startled, and even when he was, his surprise was not expressed in exclamations. "I don't think that I understand.
Durrance had never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible it might deserve much thought. "There were you and I and Feversham present," he went on. "Feversham had asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him."
"Something which at all costs I must conceal," Ethne exclaimed, and was not sure, even while she spoke, that Durrance had not already found it out. She stepped over the threshold of the window on to the terrace.
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