But she had not the courage."
Durrance knew that there was another explanation of Ethne's hesitations
and timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the true
one. But to-morrow he himself would be gone from the Salcombe estuary,
and Ethne would be on her way to the Irish Channel and Donegal. It was
not worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he was
close upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from the
fields. Once across that stile, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. He
contented himself with saying quietly:--
"You are not just to Ethne."
At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. She
recognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings of
courage, of her detractions of Ethne. Her words might be true or not,
they could achieve nothing. Durrance was always in the room with Ethne,
never upon the terrace with Mrs. Adair. She became conscious of her
degradation, and she fell to excuses.
"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiest
of lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me." It sounded
pitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, and
Durrance had turned towards her.
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