"
They shook hands as she spoke.
"I shall be in England again in a year's time," said Durrance. "May I
come back?"
Ethne's eyes and her smile consented.
"I should be sorry to lose you altogether," she said, "although even if
I did not see you, I should know that I had not lost your friendship."
She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you are
doing, if ever you have the time to spare."
"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a little
doubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, it
might be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from your
thoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in a
moment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed she
would have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to me
then." And she added drily, "But it will be about--other things."
And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired;
and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more.
She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood,
until he was gone out of sight.
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