"Yes," she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn't
it? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if you
can tell me."
"The fifteenth," said Durrance; and Ethne repeated the date
meditatively.
"I was at Glenalla all February," she said. "What was I doing on the
fifteenth? It does not matter."
She had felt a queer sort of surprise all the time while Willoughby was
telling his story that morning, that she had not known, by some
instinct, of these incidents at the actual moment of their occurrence.
The surprise returned to her now. It was strange that she should have
had to wait for this August night and this summer garden of moonlight
and closed flowers before she learned of the meeting between Feversham
and Durrance on February 15 and heard the message. And remorse came to
her because of that delay. "It was my own fault," she said to herself.
"If I had kept my faith in him I should have known at once. I am well
punished." It did not at all occur to her that the message could convey
any but the best of news. It would carry on the good tidings which she
had already heard. It would enlarge and complete, so that this day might
be rounded to perfection.
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