“He’s detested in college!” Alice’s small face lit up vindictively. “There’s a whole set of them. Other people call them ‘the bloods.’ The dons would like to send them all down.” “They won’t send Falloden down, my dear, before he gets his First in Greats, which he will do this summer. But this is his last term. I never knew any one write better Greek iambics than that fellow,” said the Reader, pausing in the middle of his cup of tea to murmur certain Greek lines to himself. They were part of the brilliant copy of verses by which Douglas Falloden of Marmion, in a fiercely contested year, had finally won the Ireland, Ewen Hooper being one of the examiners. “That’s what’s so abominable,” said Alice, setting her small mouth. “You don’t expect reading men to drink, and get into rows.” “Drink?” said Constance Bledlow, raising her eyebrows. Alice went into details. The dons of Marmion, she said, were really frightened by the spread of drinking in college, all caused by the bad example of the Falloden set. She talked fast and angrily, and her cousin listened, half scornfully, but still attentively. “Why don’t they keep him in order?” she said at last. “We did!” And she made a little gesture with her hand, impatient and masterful, as though dismissing the subject. And at that moment Nora came into the room, flushed either with physical exertion, or the consciousness of her own virtue. She found a place at the tea-table, and panting a little demanded to be fed. “It’s hungry work, carrying up trunks!” “You didn’t!” exclaimed Constance, in large-eyed astonishment. “I say, I am sorry! Why did you? I’m sure they were too heavy. Why didn’t Annette get a man?” And sitting up, she bent across the table, all charm suddenly, and soft distress. “We did get one, but he was a wretched thing. I was worth two of him,” said Nora triumphantly. “You should feel my biceps. There!” And slipping up her loose sleeve, she showed an arm, at which Constance Bledlow laughed. And her laugh touched her face with something audacious—something wild—which transformed it. “I shall take care how I offend you!” Nora nodded over her tea. “Your maid was shocked. She said I might as well have been a man.” “It’s quite true,” sighed Mrs. Hooper. “You always were such a tomboy, Nora.” “Not at all! But I wish to develop my muscles. That’s why I do Swedish exercises every morning. It’s ridiculous how flabby girls are. There isn’t a girl in my lecture I can’t put down. If you like, I’ll teach you my exercises,” said Nora, her mouth full of tea-cake, and her expression half friendly, half patronising. Connie Bledlow did not immediately reply. She seemed to be quietly examining Nora, as she had already examined Alice, and that odd gleam in the eyes under depths appeared again. But at last she said, smiling—