“She can’t ever care for me,” he thought despairingly.  “I know that.  I’m not her equal.  I should be a fool to dream of it.  But if she’s going to throw herself away—­to break her heart for that fellow—­it’s—­it’s devilish!  Why aren’t we in Paris—­or Warsaw—­where I could call him out?”

He tossed about in pain and fever, irritably deciding that his bandage hurt him, and he must recall the doctor, when he heard Sorell’s voice at the door.  It quieted him at once.

“Come in!”

Sorell came in with a scared face.

“My dear boy—­what’s the matter?”

“Oh, there was a bit of a row last night.  We were larking round the fountain, trying to push each other in, and I cut my hand on one of those rotten old pipes.  Beastly luck!  But Fanning’s done everything.  I shall be all right directly.  There’s a little bone broken.”

“A bone broken!—­your hand!” ejaculated Sorell, who sat down and looked at him in dismay.

“Yes—­I wish it had been my foot!  But it doesn’t matter.  That kind of thing gets well quickly, doesn’t it?” He eyed his visitor anxiously.  “You see I never was really ill in my life.”

“Well, we can’t run any risks about it,” said Sorell decidedly.  “I shall go and see Fanning.  If there’s any doubt about it, I shall carry you up to London, and get one of the crack surgeons to come and look at it.  What was the row about?”

Radowitz’s eyes contracted so that Sorell could make nothing out of them.

“I really can’t remember,” said the lad’s weary voice.  “There’s been a lot of rowing lately.”

“Who made the row?”

“What’s the good of asking questions?” The speaker turned irritably away.  “I’ve had such a lot of beastly dreams all night, I can’t tell what happened, and what didn’t happen.  It was just a jolly row, that’s all I know.”

Sorell perceived that for some reason Radowitz was not going to tell him the story.  But he was confident that Douglas Falloden had been at the bottom of it, and he felt a fierce indignation.  He had however to keep it to himself, as it was clear that questions excited and annoyed the patient.

He sat by the boy a little, observing him.  Then he suggested that Bateson the scout and he should push the bed into the sitting-room, for greater air and space.  Radowitz hesitated, and then consented.  Sorell went out to speak to Bateson.

“All right, sir,” said the scout.  “I’ve just about got the room straight; but I had to get another man to help me.  They must have gone on something fearful.  There wasn’t an article in the room that wasn’t knocked about.”

“Who did it?” said Sorell shortly.

The scout looked embarrassed.

“Well, of course, sir, I don’t know for certain.  I wasn’t there to see.  But I do hear Mr. Falloden, and Lord Meyrick, and Mr. Robertson were in it—­and there were some other gentlemen besides.  There’s been a deal of ragging in this college lately, sir.  I do think, sir, as the fellows should stop it.”