Ethne
rose from her chair and took the dog's head between her hands and kissed
it. He was very old, she thought; he would die soon and leave her, and
then there would be years and years, perhaps, before she lay down in her
bed and knew the great moment was at hand.
There came a knock upon the door, and a servant told her that Colonel
Durrance was waiting.
"Yes," she said, and as he entered the room she went forward to meet
him. She did not shirk the part which she had allotted to herself. She
stepped out from the secret chamber of her grief as soon as she was
summoned.
She talked with her visitor as though no unusual thing had happened an
hour before, she even talked of their marriage and the rebuilding of
Lennon House. It was difficult, but she had grown used to difficulties.
Only that night Durrance made her path a little harder to tread. He
asked her, after the maid had brought in the tea, to play to him the
Musoline Overture upon her violin.
"Not to-night," said Ethne. "I am rather tired." And she had hardly
spoken before she changed her mind. Ethne was determined that in the
small things as well as in the great she must not shirk. The small
things with their daily happenings were just those about which she must
be most careful.
Pages:
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476