Constance Bledlow stepped out of the Bletchley train into the crowded Oxford station. Annette was behind her. As they made their way towards the luggage van, Connie saw a beckoning hand and face. They belonged to Nora Hooper, and in another minute Connie found herself taken possession of by her cousin. Nora was deeply sunburnt. Her colour was more garishly red and brown, her manner more trenchant than ever. At sight of Connie her face flushed with a sudden smile, as though the owner of the face could not help it. Yet they had only been a few minutes together before Connie had discovered that, beneath the sunburn, there was a look of tension and distress, and that the young brown eyes, usually so bright and bold, were dulled with fatigue. But to notice such things in Nora was only to be scorned. Connie held her tongue. “Can’t you leave Annette to bring the luggage, and let us walk up?” said Nora. Connie assented, and the two girls were soon in the long and generally crowded street leading to the Cornmarket. Nora gave rapidly a little necessary information. Term had just begun, and Oxford was “dreadfully full.” She had got another job of copying work at the Bodleian, for which she was being paid by the University Press, and what with that and the work for her coming exam, she was “pretty driven.” But that was what suited her. Alice and her mother were “all right.” “And Uncle Ewen?” said Connie. Nora paused a moment. “Well, you won’t think he looks any the better for his holiday,” she said at last, with an attempt at a laugh. “And of course he’s doing ten times too much work. Hang work! I loathe work: I want to ‘do nothing forever and ever.’” “Why don’t you set about it then?” laughed Connie. “Because—” Nora began impetuously; and then shut her lips. She diverged to the subject of Mr. Pryce. They had not seen or heard anything of him for weeks, she said, till he had paid them an evening call, the night before, the first evening of the new term. Connie interrupted. “Oh, but that reminds me,” she said eagerly, “I’ve got an awfully nice letter—to-day—from Lord Glaramara. Mr. Pryce is to go up and see him.” Nora whistled. “You have! Well, that settles it. He’ll now graciously allow himself to propose. And then we shall all pretend to be greatly astonished. Alice will cry, and mother will say she ‘never expected to lose her daughter so soon.’ What a humbug everybody is!” said the child, bitterly, with more emphasis than grammar. “But suppose he doesn’t get anything!” cried Connie, alarmed at such a sudden jump from the possible to the certain. “Oh, but he will! He’s the kind of person that gets things,” said Nora contemptuously. “Well, we wanted a bit of good news!” Connie jumped at the opening. “Dear Nora!—have things been going wrong? You look awfully tired. Do tell me!”