Nora shut the door behind her, and came to the side of the bed. “It’s time to dress,” she said firmly. “Alice says you had a _succès fou_ last night.” “Go away, and don’t talk nonsense!” Constance turned on her side, and shut her eyes. “Oh, Alice hadn’t a bad time either!” said Nora, complacently, sitting on the bed. “Herbert Pryce seems to have behaved quite decently. Shall I tell you something?” The laughing girl stooped over Connie, and said in her ear—“Now that Herbert knows it would be no good proposing to you, he thinks it might be a useful thing to have you for a relation.” “Don’t be horrid!” said Constance. “If I were Alice—” “You’d punch my head?” Nora laughed. “All very well. But Alice doesn’t much care why Herbert Pryce marries her, so long as he does marry her.” Constance did not reply. She continued to feign a headache. But all the time she was thinking of the scene in the wood that morning, when she and Falloden had—to amuse themselves—plotted the rise in life, and the matrimonial happiness, of Herbert and Alice. How little they had cared for what they talked about! They talked only that they might laugh together—hear each other’s voices, look into each other’s eyes— “Where did you ride this morning?” said Nora suddenly. “Somewhere out towards Godstowe,” said Constance vaguely. “I saw Mr. Falloden riding down the High this morning, when I was on the way to the Bodleian. He just looks splendid on horseback—I must give him that. Why doesn’t he ride with you sometimes, as he chose your horse?” “I understand the whole of Oxford would have a fit if a girl went out riding with an undergraduate,” said Constance, her voice muffled in the pillow. Then, after a moment she sprang up, and began to brush her hair. “Mr. Falloden’s not an undergraduate now. He can do what he likes,” said Nora. Constance made no reply. Nora observed her with a pair of shrewd brown eyes. “There are two bouquets for you downstairs,” she said abruptly. Constance turned round startled, almost hidden by the thick veil of her brown hair. “Who’s sent them?” “One comes from Mr. Radowitz—a beauty. The other’s from Lord Meyrick. Isn’t he a jolly boy?” Constance turned back to the dressing-table, disappointed. She had half expected another name. And yet she would have felt insulted if Falloden had dared to send her flowers that evening, without a word of apology—of regret for their happy hour, spoilt by his absurd demands. “Well, I can’t carry them both; and one will be offended.”