‘Try them!’ The reply rang out defiantly. Connie laughed. ‘They’ll never have the chance. Who’ll ever attack England? If we had only something—something splendid, and not too far away!—to look back upon, as the Italians look back on Garibaldi—or to long and to suffer for, as the Poles long and suffer for Poland!’ ‘We shall some day!’ said Nora, hopefully. ‘Mr. Sorell says every nation gets its turn to fight for its life. I suppose Otto Radowitz has been talking Poland to you?’ ‘He talks it—and he _lives_ it,’ said Connie, with emphasis. ‘It’s marvellous!—it shames one.’ Nora shrugged her shoulders. ‘But what can he _do_—with his poor hand! You know Mr. Sorell has taken a cottage for him at Boar’s Hill—above Hinksey?’ Yes, Connie knew. She seemed suddenly on her guard. ‘But he can’t live alone?’ said Nora. ‘Who on earth’s going to look after him?’ Connie hesitated. Down a side street she perceived the stately front of Marmion, and at the same moment a tall man emerging from the dusk crossed the street and entered the Marmion gate. Her heart leapt. No! Absurd! He and Otto had not arrived yet. But already the Oxford dark, and the beautiful Oxford distances were peopled for her with visions and prophecies of hope. The old and famous city that had seen so much youth bloom and pass, spoke magic things to her with its wise, friendly voice. Aloud, she said— ‘You haven’t heard? Mr. Falloden’s going to live with him.’ Nora stopped in stupefaction. ‘_What?_’ Connie repeated the information—adding— ‘I daresay Mr. Sorell didn’t speak of it to you, because—he hates it.’ ‘I suppose it’s just a theatrical _coup_,’ said Nora, passionately, as they walked on—‘to impress the public.’ ‘It isn’t!—it isn’t anything of the kind. And Otto had only to say No.’ ‘It’s ridiculous!—preposterous! They’ll clash all day long.’ Connie replied with difficulty, as though she had so pondered and discussed this matter with herself that every opinion about it seemed equally reasonable. ‘I don’t think so. Otto wishes it.’ ‘But why—but _why_?’ insisted Nora. ‘Oh, Connie!—as if Douglas Falloden could look after anybody but himself!’ Then she repented a little. Connie smiled, rather coldly. ‘He looked after his father,’ she said, quietly. ‘I told you all that in my letters. And you forget how it was—that he and Otto came across each other again.’ Nora warmly declared that she had not forgotten it, but that it did not seem to her to have anything to do with the extraordinary proposal that the man more responsible than anyone else for the maiming—possibly for the death—of Otto Radowitz, if all one heard about him were true, should be now installed as his companion and guardian during these critical months. She talked with obvious and rather angry common sense, as one who had not passed her eighteenth birthday for nothing. But Connie fell silent. She would not discuss it, and Nora was obliged to let the subject drop. * * * * *