‘Oh, no, no--he _does_ count on you,’ repeated Connie in her soft, determined voice. ‘If you give up, he will be much--much worse off!’ Then she added after a moment--‘Don’t give up! I--I ask you!’ ‘Then I shall stay.’ They moved on a few steps in silence, till Connie said eagerly-- ‘Have you any news from Paris?’ ‘Yes, I am going over next week. We wrote in the nick of time. The whole thing was just being given up--for lack of funds. Now I have told him he may spend what he pleases, so long as he does the thing.’ ‘Please--mayn’t I help?’ ‘Thank you. It’s my affair.’ ‘It’ll be very--very expensive.’ ‘I shall manage it.’ ‘It would be kinder’--her voice shook a little--‘if I might help.’ He considered it--then said doubtfully-- ‘Suppose you provide the records?--the things it plays? I don’t know anything about music--and I have been racking my brains to think of somebody in Paris who could look after that part of it.’ Constance exclaimed. Why, she had several friends in Paris, in the very thick of the musical world there! She had herself had lessons all one winter in Paris at the Conservatoire from a dear old fellow--a Pole, a pupil of Chopin in his youth, and in touch with the whole Polish colony in Paris, which was steeped in music. ‘He made love to me a little’--she said laughing--‘I’m sure he’d do anything for us. I’ll write _at once_! And there is somebody at the Embassy--why, of course, I can set all kinds of people to work!’ And her feet began to dance along the road beside him. ‘We must get some Polish music’--she went on--‘There’s that marvellous young pianist they rave about in Paris--Paderewski. I’m sure he’d help! Otto has often talked to me about him. We must have lots of Chopin--and Liszt--though of course he wasn’t a Pole!--And Polish national songs!--Otto was only telling me to-day how Chopin loved them--how he and Liszt used to go about the villages and farms and note them down. Oh we’ll have a _wonderful_ collection!’ Her eyes shone in her small, flushed face. They walked on fast, talking and dreaming, till there was Folly Bridge in front of them, and the beginnings of Oxford. Falloden pulled up sharply. ‘I must run back. We have supper early. Will you come again?’ She held out her hand. His face beside her, as the moonlight caught it, stirred in her a sudden, acute sense of delight. ‘Oh yes--we’ll come again. But don’t leave him!--don’t, please, think of it! He trusts you--he leans on you.’ ‘It is kind of you to believe it. But I am no use!’ He put her back into the carriage, bowed formally, and was gone, running up the hill at an athlete’s pace.