"
"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you
knew."
"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for
news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know
nothing definite. I should like you to tell me."
Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.
"Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance
broke it again.
"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt
then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some
little while. I do not think that I will stay there--in any case. I mean
even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla."
Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are
neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of.
We should be prudent."
"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, "but the right kind of
prudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good
deal."
Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him,
so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she
remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still.
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