As he walked, he said to himself that he was heartily sick of this Oxford life, ragging and all. It was a good thing it was so nearly done. He meant to get his First, because he didn’t choose, having wasted so much time over it, not to get it. But it wouldn’t give him any particular pleasure to get it. The only thing that really mattered was that Constance Bledlow was in Oxford, and that when his schools were over, he would have nothing to do but to stay on two or three weeks and force the running with her. He felt himself immeasurably older than his companions with whom he had just been rioting. His mind was set upon a man’s interests and aims—marriage, travel, Parliament; they were still boys, without a mind among them. None the less, there was an underplot running through his consciousness all the time as to how best to punish Radowitz—both for his throw, and his impertinence in monopolising a certain lady for at least a quarter of an hour on the preceding evening. At the well-known livery-stables in Holywell, he found a certain animation. Horses were in demand, as there were manoeuvres going on in Blenheim Park, and the minds of both dons and undergraduates were drawn thither. But Falloden succeeded in getting hold of the manager and absorbing his services at once. “Show you something really good, fit for a lady?” The manager took him through the stables, and Falloden in the end picked out precisely the beautiful brown mare of which he had spoken to Constance. “Nobody else is to ride her, please, till the lady I am acting for has tried her,” he said peremptorily to Fox. “I shall try her myself to-morrow. And what about a groom?—a decent fellow, mind, with a decent livery.” He saw a possible man and another horse, reserving both provisionally. Then he walked hurriedly to his lodgings to see if by any chance there were a note for him there. He had wired to his mother the day before, telling her to write to Constance Bledlow and Mrs. Hooper by the evening’s post, suggesting that, on Thursday before the Eights, Lady Laura should pick her up at Medburn House, take her to tea at Falloden’s lodgings and then on to the Eights. Lady Laura was to ask for an answer addressed to the lodgings. He found one—a little note with a crest and monogram he knew well. Medburn House. “Dear Mr. Falloden,—I am very sorry I can not come to tea to-morrow. But my aunt and cousins seem to have made an engagement for me. No doubt I shall see Lady Laura at the boats. My aunt thanks her for her kind letter. “Yours very truly, “Constance Bledlow.” Falloden bit his lip. He had reckoned on an acceptance, having done everything that had been prescribed to him; and he felt injured. He walked on, fuming and meditating, to Vincent’s Club, and wrote a reply.