en
Ethne turn out the lamp, and the swift change in the room from light to
dark, with its suggestion of secrecy and the private talk of lovers, had
been a torture to her. But she had not fled from the torture. She had
sat listening, and the music as it floated out upon the garden with its
thrill of happiness, its accent of yearning, and the low, hushed
conversation which followed upon its cessation in that darkened room,
had struck upon a chord of imagination in Mrs. Adair and had kindled her
jealousy into a scorching flame. Then suddenly Ethne had taken flight.
The possibility of a quarrel Mrs. Adair dismissed from her thoughts. She
knew very well that Ethne was not of the kind which quarrels, nor would
she escape by running away, should she be entangled in a quarrel. But
something still more singular occurred. Durrance continued to speak in
that room from which Ethne had escaped. The sound of his voice reached
Mrs. Adair's ears, though she could not distinguish the words. It was
clear to her that he believed Ethne to be still with him. Mrs. Adair
rose from her seat and, walking silently upon the tips of her toes, came
close to the open window. She heard Durrance laugh light-heartedly, and
she listened to the words he spoke. She could hear them plainly now,
though she could not see the man who spoke them. He sat in the shadows.

"I began to find out," he was saying, "even on that first afternoon at
Hill Street two months ago, that there was only friendship on your side.
My blindness helped me. With your face and your eyes in view I should
have believed without question just what you wished me to believe. But
you had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. I
began in a word to see. For the first time in my life I began to see."

Mrs. Adair did not move. Durrance, upon his side, appeared to expect no
answer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment which a
man uses recounting difficulties which have ceased to hamper him,
perplexities which have been long since unravelled.

"I should have definitely broken off our engagement, I suppose, at once.
For I still believed, and as firmly as ever, that there must be more
than friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you,
Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited and
deferred the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe that
there was a chance of recovery when I knew there was none. For I hop