The reflection was not
without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness
he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was
compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted.
"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked.
Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered.
He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the
expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his
words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones.
"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with
him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he
cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship
now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for,
you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six
hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:--
"You are going back to Glenalla?"
"Yes."
"You will live there alone?"
"Yes."
For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked
round to the back of her chair.
"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was
broken off.
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