Adair. Ethne had left London and
returned to Donegal. She had left rather suddenly, Mrs. Adair told him,
and Mrs. Adair had no sure knowledge of the reason of her going.
Durrance, however, had no doubt as to the reason. Ethne was putting into
practice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was to
try to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she could
by her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her,
Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not asked
him to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that year
the letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad to
receive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite of
their careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out--it
might be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she had
spoken long ago and long ago forgotten--and she could not but see that
in spite of her prayer she lived perpetually in his thoughts. There was
a strain of hopefulness too, as though he moved in a world painted with
new colours and suddenly grown musical. Ethne had never freed herself
from the haunting fear that one man's life had been spoilt because of
her; she had never faltered from her determination that this should not
happen with a second.
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