But a later topic of conversation had brought them into even closer contact. Connie spoke of her proposed visit to her aunts. Falloden, radiant, could not conceal his delight. “You will be only five miles from us. Of course you must come and stay at Flood! My mother writes they have collected a jolly party for the 12th. I will tell her to write to you at once. You must come! You must! Will you promise?” And Constance, wondering at her own docility, had practically promised. “I want you to know my people—I want you to know my father!” And as he plunged again into talk about his father, the egotistical man of fashion disappeared; she seemed at last to have reached something sincere and soft, and true. And then—what had begun the jarring? Was it—first—her account of her Greek lessons with Sorell? Before she knew what had happened, the brow beside her had clouded, the voice had changed. Why did she see so much of Sorell? He, like Radowitz, was a _poseur_—a wind-bag. That was what made the attraction between them. If she wished to learn Greek— “Let me teach you!” And he had bent forward, with his most brilliant and imperious look, his hand upon her reins. But Constance, surprised and ruffled, had protested that Sorell had been her mother’s dear friend, and was now her own. She could not and would not give up her lessons. Why indeed should she? “Because friends”—Falloden had laid a passionate emphasis on the word—“must have some regard—surely—to each other’s likes and dislikes. If you have an enemy, tell me—he or she shall be mine—instantly! Sorell dislikes me. You will never hear any good of me from him. And, of course, Radowitz hates me. I have given him good cause. Promise—at least—that you will not dance with Radowitz again. You don’t know what I suffered last night. He has the antics of a monkey!” Whereupon the quarrel between them had broken like thunder, Constance denouncing the arrogance and unkindness that could ask such promises of her; Falloden steadily, and with increasing bitterness, pressing his demand. And so to the last scene between them, at the gate. Was it a breach?—or would it all be made up that very night at the Magdalen ball? No!—it was and should be a breach! Constance fought back her tears, and rode proudly home. “What are you going to wear to-night?” said Nora, putting her head in at Constance’s door. Constance was lying down by Annette’s strict command, in preparation for her second ball, which was being given by Magdalen, where the college was reported to have surpassed itself in the lavishness of all the preparations made for lighting up its beautiful walks and quadrangles. Constance pointed languidly to the sofa, where a creation in white silk and tulle, just arrived from London, had been laid out by the reverential hands of Annette. “Why on earth does one go to balls?” said Constance, gloomily pressing both hands upon a pair of aching temples.