Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey.

Her eyes shut tightly and then opened again.

He thought that she would faint.
"The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary as her face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much pain." "Hush!" whispered Feversham.

"Courage! A few minutes more--only a very few!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned.
"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dance caught them in its spokes again.
It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thanking him for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of their position occurred to neither of them.

Ethne was too tried by the strain of those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure of her endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of pain in her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her.