Once Sorell saw them in what appeared intimate conversation at a Christ Church party. Falloden—who was flushed and frowning—was talking rapidly in a low voice; and Constance was listening to him with a look half soft, half mocking. Her replies seemed to irritate her companion, for they parted abruptly, Constance looking back to smile a sarcastic good-bye. Again, on the Sunday before the Encænia, a famous high churchman preached in the University church. The church was densely crowded, and Sorell, sitting in the masters’ seats under the pulpit, saw Constance dimly, in the pews reserved for wives and families of the University doctors and masters, beneath the gallery. Immediately to her right, in the very front of the undergraduates’ gallery, he perceived the tall form and striking head of Douglas Falloden; and when the sermon was over he saw that the young man was one of the first to push his way out. “He hopes to waylay her,” thought Sorell. If so, he was unsuccessful. Sorell emerging with the stream into the High Street saw Connie’s black and white parasol a little ahead. Falloden was on the point of overtaking her, when Radowitz, the golden-haired, the conspicuous, crossed his path. Constance looked round, smiled, shook hands with Radowitz, and apparently not seeing Falloden in her rear, walked on, in merry talk with the beaming musician. Sorell, perhaps, was the only person who noticed the look of pale fury with which Falloden dropped out of the crowded pathway, crossed the street, and entered a smart club opposite, exclusively frequented by “bloods.” Commem. week itself, however, would give a man in love plenty of chances. Sorell was well aware of it. Monday dawned with misty sunshine after much rain. In the Turl after luncheon, Sorell met Nora Hooper hurrying along with note-books under her arm. They turned down Brasenose Lane together, and she explained that she was on her way to the Bodleian where she was already at work on her first paid job. Her pleasure in it, and the childish airs she gave herself in regard to it, touched and amused Sorell, with whom—through the Greek lessons—she had become a great favourite. As they parted at the doorway leading to the Bodleian, she said with a mischievous look— “Did you know Mr. Falloden’s party is off?” And she explained that for the following day, Falloden had arranged the most elaborate and exclusive of river-parties, with tea in the private gardens of a famous house, ten miles from Oxford. His mother and sister had been coming down for it, and he had asked other people from London. “It was all for Connie—and Connie’s had to scratch! And Mr. Falloden has put it all off. He says his mother, Lady Laura, has a chill and can’t come, but every one knows—it’s Connie!” She and Sorell smiled at each other. They had never had many words on the subject, but they understood each other perfectly. “What made her scratch?” asked Sorell, wondering.