“I hope you approve what I have been doing about the mare?” “I am of course most grateful. When am I to try her?” “I shall take her out to-morrow afternoon. Then I’ll report.” “It is extremely kind of you.” The tone was strictly conventional. He said nothing; and after a minute she could not help looking up. She met an expression which showed a wounded gentleman beside her. “I hope you saw the races well?” he said coldly. “Excellently. And Mr. Sorell explained everything.” “You knew him before?” “But of course!” she said, laughing. “I have known him for years.” “You never mentioned him—at Cannes.” “One does not always catalogue one’s acquaintance, does one?” “He seems to be more than an acquaintance.” “Oh, yes. He is a great friend. Mamma was so fond of him. He went with us to Sicily once. And Uncle Ewen likes him immensely.” “He is of course a paragon,” said Falloden. Constance glanced mockingly at her companion. “I don’t see why he should be called anything so disagreeable. All we knew of him was—that he was delightful! So learned—and simple—and modest—the dearest person to travel with! When he left us at Palermo, the whole party seemed to go flat.” “You pile it on!” “Not at all. You asked me if he were more than an acquaintance. I am giving you the facts.” “I don’t enjoy them!” said Falloden abruptly. She burst into her soft laugh. “I’m so sorry. But I really can’t alter them. Where has my party gone to?” She looked ahead, and saw that by a little judicious holding back Falloden had dexterously isolated her both from his own group and hers. Mrs. Manson and Lady Laura were far ahead in the wide, moving crowd that filled the new-made walk across the Christ Church meadow; so were the Hoopers and the slender figure and dark head of Alexander Sorell. “Don’t distress yourself, please. We shall catch them up before we get to Merton Street. And this only pays the very smallest fraction of your debt! I understood that if my mother wrote—” She coloured brightly. “I didn’t promise!” she said hastily. “And I found the Hoopers were counting on me.” “No doubt. Oh, I don’t grumble. But when friends—suppose we take the old path under the wall? It is much less crowded.” And before she knew where she was, she had been whisked out of the stream of visitors and undergraduates, and found herself walking almost in solitude in the shadow of one of the oldest walls in Oxford, the Cathedral towering overhead, the crowd moving at some distance on their right. “That’s better,” said Falloden coolly. “May I go on? I was saying that when one friend disappoints another—bitterly!—there is such a thing as making up!” There were beautiful notes in Falloden’s deep voice, when he chose to employ them. He employed them now, and the old thrill of something that was at once delight and fear ran through Constance. But she looked him in the face, apparently quite unmoved.