Sorell agreed, and went off to the surgery, thinking furiously.  Suppose the boy’s hand—­and his fine talent—­had been permanently injured by that arrogant bully, Falloden, and his set!  And Constance Bledlow had been entangling herself with him—­in spite of what anybody could say!  He thought with disgust of the scenes of the Marmion ball, of the reckless way in which Constance had encouraged Falloden’s pursuit of her, of the talk of Oxford.  His work with the Greats’ papers had kept him away from the Magdalen ball, and he had heard nothing of it.  No doubt that foolish child had behaved in the same way there.  He was thankful he had not been there to see.  But he vowed to himself that he would find out the facts of the attack on Radowitz, and that she should know them.

Yet the whole thing was very surprising.  He had seen on various occasions that Falloden was jealous of Connie’s liking for Radowitz, of the boy’s homage, and of Connie’s admiration for his musical gift.  But after the Marmion night, and the triumph she had so unwisely given the fellow—­to behave in this abominable way!  There couldn’t be a spark of decent feeling in his composition.

* * * * *

Radowitz lay still—­thinking always of Falloden, and Lady Constance.

Another knock at his door—­very timid and hesitating.  Radowitz said “Come in.”

The door opened partially, and a curly head was thrust in.  Another head appeared behind it.

“May we come in?” said a muffled voice.  “It’s Meyrick—­and Robertson.”

“I don’t care if you do,” said Radowitz coldly.  “What do you want?”

The two men came in, stepping softly.  One was fair and broad-shouldered.  The other exceedingly dark and broad-shouldered.  Each was a splendid specimen of the university athlete.  And two more sheepish and hang-dog individuals it would have been difficult to find.

“We’ve come to apologise,” said Meyrick, standing by the bed, his hands in his pockets, looking down on Radowitz.  “We didn’t mean to hurt you of course, and we’re awfully sorry—­aren’t we, Robertson?”

Robertson, sheltering behind Meyrick, murmured a deep-voiced assent.

“If we hadn’t been beastly drunk we should never have done it,” said Meyrick; “but that’s no excuse.  How are you?  What does Fanning say?”

They both looked so exceedingly miserable that Radowitz, surveying them with mollified astonishment, suddenly went into a fit of hysterical laughter.  The others watched him in alarm.

“Do sit down, you fellows!—­and don’t bother!” said Radowitz, as soon as he could speak.  “I gave it to you both as hard as I could in my speech.  And you hit back.  We’re quits.  Shake hands.”

And he held out his left hand, which each of them gingerly shook.  Then they both sat down, extremely embarrassed, and not knowing what to say or do next, except that Meyrick again enquired as to Fanning’s opinion.