Ethne herself knew it for an
indiscreet friend. But it was to be brought out to-night.
Mrs. Adair lingered until Ethne was out of ear-shot.
"You have noticed the change in her to-night?" she said.
"Yes. Have I not?" answered Durrance. "One has waited for it, hoped for
it, despaired of it."
"Are you so glad of the change?"
Durrance threw back his head. "Do you wonder that I am glad? Kind,
friendly, unselfish--these things she has always been. But there is more
than friendliness evident to-night, and for the first time it's
evident."
There came a look of pity upon Mrs. Adair's face, and she passed out of
the room without another word. Durrance took all of that great change in
Ethne to himself. Mrs. Adair drew up the blinds of the drawing-room,
opened the window, and let the moonlight in; and then, as she saw Ethne
unlocking the case of her violin, she went out on to the terrace. She
felt that she could not sit patiently in her company. So that when
Durrance entered the drawing-room he found Ethne alone there. She was
seated in the window, and already tightening the strings of her violin.
Durrance took a chair behind her in the shadows.
"What shall I play to you?" she asked.
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