She spoke in a low, dreamy tone, her chin propped on her hand. Nothing could have been, apparently, quieter or more self-governed than her attitude. But her inner mind was full of tumult; resentful memory; uneasy joy; and a tremulous fear, both of herself and of the man at her feet. And the man knew it, or guessed it. He dragged himself a little nearer to her on the grass. “Why didn’t you tell me when you were coming?” The tone was light and laughing. “I owe you no account of my actions,” said the girl quickly. “We agreed to be friends.” “No! We are not friends.” She spoke with suppressed violence, and breaking a twig from the tree overshadowing her, she threw it from her, as though the action were a relief. He sat up, looking up into her face, his hands clasped round his knees. “That means you haven’t forgiven me?” “It means that I judge and despise you,” she said passionately; “and that it was not an attraction to me to find you here—quite the reverse!” “Yet here you are—sitting with me in this garden—and you are looking delicious! That dress becomes you so—you are so graceful—so exquisitely graceful. And you never found a more perfect setting than this place—these lawns and trees—and the old college walls. Oxford was waiting for you, and you for Oxford. Are you laughing at me?” “Naturally!” “I could rave on by the hour if you would listen to me.” “We have both something better to do—thank goodness! May I ask if you are doing any work?” He laughed. “Ten hours a day. This is my first evening out since March. I came to meet you.” Constance bowed ironically. Then for the first time, since their conversation began, it might have been seen that she had annoyed him. “Friends are not allowed to doubt each other’s statements!” he said with animation. “You see I still persist that you allowed me that name, when—you refused me a better. As to my work, ask any of my friends. Talk to Meyrick. He is a dear boy, and will tell you anything you like. He and I ‘dig’ together in Beaumont Street. My schools are now only three weeks off. I work four hours in the morning. Then I play till six—and get in another six hours between then and 1 a.m.” “Wonderful!” said Constance coolly. “Your ways at Cannes were different. It’s a mercy there’s no Monte Carlo within reach.” “I play when I play, and work when I work!” he said with emphasis. “The only thing to hate and shun always—is moderation.” “And yet you call yourself a classic! Well, you seem to be sure of your First. At least Uncle Ewen says so.” “Ewen Hooper? He is a splendid fellow—a real Hellenist. He and I get on capitally. About your aunt—I am not so sure.” “Nobody obliges you to know her,” was the tranquil reply.