Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody in
vain. Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have
the power to stir her. She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in the
little bare whitewashed cafe, and strummed out his music to the negroes
and Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she had
done to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of the
melody might reach across the world. She knew now for very certain that,
however much she might in the future pretend to forget Harry Feversham,
it would never be more than a pretence. The vision of the lighted cafe
in the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but she
had no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination to
pretend to forget. The mere knowledge that she had at one time been
unjustly harsh to Harry, made her yet more resolved that Durrance should
not suffer for any fault of hers.
"I told you last year, Ethne, at Hill Street," Durrance resumed, "that I
never wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance was all
on his side and not at all on mine. For the moment that he realised he
had called out my name he tried to edge backward from me into the crowd,
he began to gabble Greek, but I caught him by the arm, and I would not
let him go.
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