He saw plainly that her presence at the Hoopers was going to transform the household in various unexpected ways. On this Saturday afternoon Mrs. Hooper’s stock of teacups entirely ran out; so did her garden chairs. Mrs. Manson called—and Lord Meyrick, under the wing of a young fellow of All Souls, smooth-faced and slim, one of the “mighty men” of the day, just taking wing for the bar and Parliament. Falloden, he understood, had put in an appearance earlier in the afternoon; Herbert Pryce, and Bobbie Vernon of Magdalen, a Blue of the first eminence, skirmished round and round the newcomer, taking possession of her when they could. Mrs. Hooper, under the influence of so much social success, showed a red and flustered countenance, and her lace cap went awry. Alice helped her mother in the distribution of tea, but was curiously silent and self-effaced. It was dismally true that the men who usually paid attention to her were now entirely occupied with Constance. Bobbie Vernon, who was artistic, was holding an ardent though intermittent discussion with Constance on the merits of old pictures and new. Pryce occasionally took part in it, but only, as Sorell soon perceived, for the sake of diverting a few of Connie’s looks and gestures, a sally or a smile, now and then to himself. In the middle of it she turned abruptly towards Sorell. Her eyes beckoned, and he carried her off to the further end of the garden, where they were momentarily alone. There she fell upon him. “Why did you never write to me all last winter?” He could not help a slight flush. “You had so many friends without me,” he said, stammeringly, at last. “One hasn’t so many old friends.” The voice was reproachful. “I thought you must be offended with me.” “How could I be!” “And you call me Lady Constance,” she went on indignantly. “When did you ever do such a thing in Rome, or when we were travelling?” His look betrayed his feeling. “Ah, but you were a little girl then, and now—” “Now”—she said impatiently—“I am just Constance Bledlow, as I was then—to you. But I don’t give away my Christian name to everybody. I don’t like, for instance, being forced to give it to Aunt Ellen!” And she threw a half-laughing, half-imperious glance towards Mrs. Hooper in the distance. Sorell smiled. “I hope you’re going to be happy here!” he said earnestly. “I shall be happy enough—if I don’t quarrel with Aunt Ellen!” “Don’t quarrel with anybody! Call me in, before you do. And do make friends with your uncle. He is delightful.” “Yes, but far too busy for the likes of me. Oh, I dare say I shall keep out of mischief.” But he thought he detected in her tone a restlessness, a forlornness, which pained him. “Why not take up some study—some occupation? Learn something—go in for Honours!” he said, laughing. She laughed too, but with a very decided shake of the head. Then she turned upon him suddenly.