Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm's
length.
"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she was
doing," Mrs. Adair continued. "Did you cause that trouble?"
"Yes."
"I thought so, from what I heard you say."
Mrs. Adair wanted to hurt, and in spite of Durrance's impenetrable face,
she felt that she had succeeded. It was a small sort of compensation for
the weeks of mortification which she had endured. There is something
which might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, even
if no defence was made. For she like Ethne was overtaxed that night.
That calm pale face of hers hid the quick passions of the South, and she
had been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had been
something grotesque, something rather horrible, in that outbreak and
confession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He was
speaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood without
the window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and a
bitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation.
The irony of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grim
selfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt.
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