The years had been good years, years of plenty, years which had advanced him to the brevet-rank of lieutenant-colonel.
"A week more--only a week," murmured Mather, drowsily.
"I shall come back," said Durrance, with a laugh.
"Have you no friends ?" And there was a pause.
"Yes, I have friends.

I shall have three months wherein to see them." Durrance had written no word to Harry Feversham during these years.

Not to write letters was indeed a part of the man.

Correspondence was a difficulty to him.

He was thinking now that he would surprise his friends by a visit to Donegal, or he might find them perhaps in London.
He would ride once again in the Row.