‘We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other,’ said Connie coolly. ‘Then’—she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland’s knee—‘you bring him to Marseilles to meet us?’ ‘Certainly—at your orders.’ Connie looked at Otto. ‘Dear Otto?’ The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully. ‘You’re awfully good to me. But how can I come to be a burden on you?’ ‘But I shall go too,’ said Mrs. Mulholland, firmly. Connie exclaimed in triumph: ‘We four—to front the desert!—just about the time that he’—she nodded towards Sorell—‘is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. You mayn’t know it’—she addressed Sorell—‘but on Monday, January 24—I think I’ve got the date right—you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian’s Villa. The weather’s arranged for—and the carriage is ordered.’ She looked at him askance. But her colour had risen. So had his. He looked down on her while Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden were both talking fast to Otto. ‘You little witch!’ said Sorell in a low voice—‘what are you after now?’ Connie laughed in his face. ‘You’ll go—you’ll see!’ * * * * * The little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast. Champagne was brought in, and Otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears and the incomparable greatness of Poland as usual. Nobody minded. After dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed Brahms and Schumann, in the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps. But Connie insisted on an early departure. ‘My guardian will have to sleep upon it—and there’s really no time to lose.’ Everyone took care not to see too much of the parting between her and Falloden. Then she and Mrs. Mulholland were put into their carriage. But Sorell preferred to walk home, and Falloden went back to Otto. Sorell descended the hill towards Oxford. The storm was dying away, and the now waning moon, which had shone so brilliantly over the frozen floods a day or two before, was venturing out again among the scudding clouds. The lights in Christ Church Hall were out, but the beautiful city shone vaguely luminous under the night. Sorell’s mind was full of mingled emotion—as torn and jagged as the clouds rushing overhead. The talk and laughter in the cottage came back to him. How hollow and vain it sounded in the spiritual ear! What could ever make up to that poor boy who could have no more, at the most, than a year or two to live? for the spilt wine of his life?—the rifled treasure of his genius? And was it not true to say that his loss had made the profit of the lovers—of whom one had been the author of it? When Falloden and Constance believed themselves to be absorbed in Otto, were they not really playing the great game of sex like any ordinary pair?