It was fitting that this overture, her favourite piece of music, should convey the message that he had not forgotten her, that in spite of the fourth white feather he thought of her with friendship.
Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody in vain.

Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have the power to stir her.

She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in the little bare whitewashed cafe, and strummed out his music to the negroes and Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she had done to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of the melody might reach across the world.

She knew now for very certain that, however much she might in the future pretend to forget Harry Feversham, it would never be more than a pretence.

The vision of the lighted cafe in the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but she had no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination to pretend to forget.