His
mind was occupied with the two letters from Ethne Eustace, and he was
wondering whether there was any deeper emotion than mere friendship
hidden beneath the words. Girls refused men for all sorts of queer
reasons which had no sense in them, and very often they were sick and
sorry about it afterwards; and very often they meant to accept the men
all the time.
"I must answer the letters from Ireland," said Durrance, when he had
finished. "The rest can wait."
Calder held a sheet of paper upon the desk and told Durrance when he was
writing on a slant and when he was writing on the blotting-pad; and in
this way Durrance wrote to tell Ethne that a sunstroke had deprived him
of his sight. Calder took that letter away. But he took it to the
hospital and asked for the Syrian doctor. The doctor came out to him,
and they walked together under the trees in front of the building.
"Tell me the truth," said Calder.
The doctor blinked behind his spectacles.
"The optic nerve is, I think, destroyed," he replied.
"Then there is no hope?"
"None, if my diagnosis is correct."
Calder turned the letter over and over, as though he could not make up
his mind what in the world to do with it.
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