“He is an artist!” cried Constance. “You have only to look at him, to talk to him, to see it. And artists are always persecuted by stupid people. But you are not stupid!”
“Yes, I am, where _poseurs_ are concerned,” said Falloden coldly. “I prefer to be. Never mind. We won’t excite ourselves. He is not worth it. Perhaps he’ll improve—in time. But there is another man I warn you against—Mr. Herbert Pryce.”
“A great friend of my cousins’,” said Constance mockingly.
“I know. He is always flirting with the eldest girl. It is a shame; for he will never marry her. He wants money and position, and he is so clever he will get them. He is not a gentleman, and he rarely tells the truth. But he is sure to make up to you. I thought I had better tell you beforehand.”
“No—only prudence. And after my schools I throw my books to the dogs, and I shall have a fortnight more of term with nothing to do except—are you going to ride?” he asked her abruptly. “You said at Cannes that you meant to ride when you came to Oxford.”
“As if that would stop you! I can tell you where you can get a horse—a mare that would just suit you. I know all the stables in Oxford. Wait till we meet on Thursday. Would you care to ride in Lathom Woods? (He named a famous estate near Oxford.) I have a permit, and could get you one. They are relations of mine.”
Constance excused herself, but scarcely with decision. Her plans, she said, must depend upon her cousins. Falloden smiled and dropped the subject for the moment. Then, as they moved on together through the sinuous ways of the garden, flooded with the scent of hawthorns and lilacs, towards the open tent crowded with folk at the farther end, there leapt in both the same intoxicating sense of youth and strength, the same foreboding of passion, half restlessness, and half enchantment....
“I looked for you everywhere,” said Sorell, as he made his way to Constance through the crowd of departing guests in the college gateway. “Where did you hide yourself? The Lord Chancellor was sad not to say good-bye to you.”
Constance summoned an answering tone of regret.
“How good of him! I was only exploring the garden—with Mr. Falloden.”
At the name, there was a quick and stiffening change in Sorell’s face.