"
"I was not thinking of that," Ethne exclaimed, "when I asked why we must
wait. That makes me out most selfish. I was merely wondering why you
preferred to wait, why you insist upon it. For, of course, although one
hopes and prays with all one's soul that you will get your sight back,
the fact of a cure can make no difference."
She spoke slowly, and her voice again had a ring of pleading. This time
Durrance did not confirm her words, and she repeated them with a greater
emphasis, "It can make no difference."
Durrance started like a man roused from an abstraction.
"I beg your pardon, Ethne," he said. "I was thinking at the moment of
Harry Feversham. There is something which I want you to tell me. You
said a long time ago at Glenalla that you might one day bring yourself
to tell it me, and I should rather like to know now. You see, Harry
Feversham was my friend. I want you to tell me what happened that night
at Lennon House to break off your engagement, to send him away an
outcast."
Ethne was silent for a while, and then she said gently: "I would rather
not. It is all over and done with. I don't want you to ask me ever."
Durrance did not press for an answer in the slightest degree.
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