," she said, and she turned curiously towards
Ethne. It seemed to her that Ethne had spoken her "yes" with much more
of suspense than eagerness; her attitude as she leaned forward at the
window had been almost one of apprehension; and though Mrs. Adair was
not quite sure, she fancied that she detected relief when the cab passed
by the house and did not stop. "I wonder why you didn't go to the
station and meet Colonel Durrance?" she asked slowly.

The answer came promptly enough.

"He might have thought that I had come because I looked upon him as
rather helpless, and I don't wish him to think that. He has his servant
with him." Ethne looked again out of the window, and once or twice she
made a movement as if she was about to speak and then thought silence
the better part. Finally, however, she made up her mind.

"You remember the telegram I showed to you?"

"From Lieutenant Calder, saying that Colonel Durrance had gone blind?"

"Yes. I want you to promise never to mention it. I don't want him to
know that I ever received it."

Mrs. Adair was puzzled, and she hated to be puzzled. She had been shown
the telegram, but she had not been told that Ethne had written to
Durrance, pledging herself to him immediately upon its receipt. Ethne,
when she showed the telegram, had merely said, "I am engaged to him."
Mrs. Adair at once believed that the engagement had been of some
standing, and she had been allowed to continue in that belief.

"You will promise?" Ethne insisted.

"Certainly, my dear, if you like," returned Mrs. Adair, with an
ungracious shrug of the shoulders. "But there is a reason, I suppose. I
don't understand why you exact the promise."

"Two lives must not be spoilt because of me."

There was some ground for Mrs. Adair's suspicion that Ethne expected
the blind man to whom she was betrothed, with apprehension. It is true
that she was a little afraid. Just twelve months had passed since, in
this very room, on just such a sunlit afternoon, Ethne had bidden
Durrance try to forget her, and each letter which she had since received
had shown that, whether he tried or not, he had not forgotten. Even that
last one received three weeks ago, the note scrawled in the handwriting
of a child, from Wadi Halfa, with the large unsteady words straggling
unevenly across the page, and the letters running into one another
wherein he had told his calamity and renounced his suit--even that
proved, and perhaps more surely than