"I used to imagine you out there," he said. "You would have loved
it--from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire at
night. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awake
wondering how the world went with my friends."
"And you go back there?" she said.
Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbed
about them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from his
voice. He spoke gazing into the stream.
"To Wadi Halfa. For two years. I suppose so."
Ethne kneeled upon the grass at his side.
"I shall miss you," she said.
She was kneeling just behind him as he sat on the ground, and again
there fell a silence between them.
"Of what are you thinking?"
"That you need not miss me," he said, and he was aware that she drew
back and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa--I might
shorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still half
my furlough."
She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained very
still, and Durrance was alarmed, and all his hopes sank. For a stillness
of attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distress
as a cry of pain with another woman.
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