He watched her in
a despairing amazement that he had ever had a chance of owning her.
Only once did her endurance fail, and then only for a second. She was
dancing with Feversham, and as she looked toward the windows she saw
that the daylight was beginning to show very pale and cold upon the
other side of the blinds.
"Look!" she said, and Feversham suddenly felt all her weight upon his
arms. Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey. Her eyes
shut tightly and then opened again. He thought that she would faint.
"The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary as
her face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much
pain."
"Hush!" whispered Feversham. "Courage! A few minutes more--only a very
few!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned.
"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dance
caught them in its spokes again.
It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thanking
him for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of their
position occurred to neither of them. Ethne was too tried by the strain
of those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure of
her endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of pain
in her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her.
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