Sorell turned upon her with a sudden change of expression. It was as though she had said something he had long expected, and now that it was said a great barrier between them had broken down. He looked at her with shining eyes from which the veil of reserve had momentarily lifted. She saw in them both tenderness and sorrow. “I don’t think you need feel that,” he said gently. Her lips trembled. She looked straight before her into the hot vista of the street. “I just played with him—with his whole future, as it’s turned out—without a thought.” Sorell knew that she was thinking of the Magdalen ball, of which he had by now heard several accounts. He guessed she meant that her provocation of Falloden had contributed to the tragedy, and that the thought tormented her. But neither of them mentioned Falloden’s name. Sorell put out his hand and grasped hers. “Otto’s only thought about you is that you gave him the happiest evening he ever spent in England,” he said with energy. “You won’t misunderstand.” Her eyes filled with tears. But there was no time to say more. The hansom drew up. [Illustration: Connie sat down beside Radowitz and they looked at each other in silence] They found Radowitz lying partly dressed on the balcony of his back room, which overlooked a tiny walled patch of grass and two plane-trees. The plane-tree seems to have been left in pity to London by some departing rural deity. It alone nourishes amid the wilderness of brick; and one can imagine it as feeling a positive satisfaction, a quiet triumph, in the absence of its stronger rivals, oak and beech and ash, like some gentle human life escaped from the tyrannies of competition. These two great trees were the guardian genii of poor Otto’s afternoons. They brought him shade and coolness, even in the hottest hours of a burning June. Connie sat down beside him, and they looked at each other in silence. Sorell, after a few gay words, had left them together. Radowitz held her hand in his own left. The other was bandaged and supported on a pillow. “When she got used to the golden light filtering through the plane leaves, she saw that he was pale and shrunken, that his eyes were more living and blue than ever, and his hair more like the burnished halo of some Florentine or Siennese saint. Yet the whole aspect was of something stricken. She felt a foreboding, a terror, of which she knew she must let nothing appear. “Do you mind my staring?” he said presently, with his half-sad, half-mischievous smile. “You are so nice to look at.” She tried to laugh. “I put on my best frock. Do you like it?” “For me?” he said, wondering. “And you brought me these roses?”