"Ethne," he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name more
trouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreaded
to find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whether
after all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture of
her youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after all
fall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, and
suddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lying
on the chair, and his fingers had touched it.
Durrance drew himself up straight and stood quite motionless and silent,
like a man who had suffered a shock and is bewildered. He passed his
hand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling upon
Ethne again, he advanced to the open window.
Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just the
width of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance,
and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one was
standing close to him.
"Ethne," he said a third time, and now he appealed.
He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her dress.
"It is not Ethne," he said with a start.
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