Ethne did not free
Captain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight.
"That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowed
to speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?"
"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told me
everything?"
"So far as I remember."
"And all that you have told me happened in the spring?"
"The spring of last year," said Willoughby.
"Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this feather
to me last summer?"
"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakin
after ibex."
"I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport."
"It wasn't bad."
Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with his
good news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have made
all the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Why
didn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harm
which Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command of
a woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly that
Willoughby believed her questions prompted by the merest curiosity.
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