“I may take him some roses?” she said humbly, pointing to a basket she had brought in with her.

Sorell smiled assent and took it from her.  As they were speeding in a hansom towards the Portland Place region, he gave her an account of the doctors’ latest opinion.  It seemed that quite apart from the blood-poisoning, which would heal, the muscles and nerves of the hand were fatally injured.  All hope of even a partial use of it was gone.

“Luckily he is not a poor man.  He has some hundreds a year.  But he had a great scheme, after he had got his Oxford degree, of going to the new Leschetizsky school in Vienna for two years, and then of giving concerts in Warsaw and Cracow, in aid of the great Polish museum now being formed at Cracow.  You know what a wild enthusiasm he has for Polish history and antiquities.  He believes his country will rise again, and it was his passion—­his most cherished hope—­to give his life and his gift to her.  Poor lad!”

The tears stood in Connie’s eyes.

“But he can still compose?” she urged piteously.

Sorell shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, if he has the heart—­and the health.  I never took much account before of his delicacy.  One can see, to look at him, that he’s not robust.  But somehow he was always so full of life that one never thought of illness in connection with him.  But I had a long talk with one of the doctors last week, who takes rather a gloomy view.  A shock like this sometimes lets loose all the germs of mischief in a man’s constitution.  And his mother was undoubtedly consumptive.  Well, we must do our best.”

He sighed.  There was silence till they turned into Wimpole Street and were in sight of the nursing home.  Then Connie said in a queer, strained voice:  “You don’t know that it was partly I who did it.”

Sorell turned upon her with a sudden change of expression.  It was as though she had said something he had long expected, and now that it was said a great barrier between them had broken down.  He looked at her with shining eyes from which the veil of reserve had momentarily lifted.  She saw in them both tenderness and sorrow.

“I don’t think you need feel that,” he said gently.  Her lips trembled.  She looked straight before her into the hot vista of the street.

“I just played with him—­with his whole future, as it’s turned out—­without a thought.”

Sorell knew that she was thinking of the Magdalen ball, of which he had by now heard several accounts.  He guessed she meant that her provocation of Falloden had contributed to the tragedy, and that the thought tormented her.  But neither of them mentioned Falloden’s name.  Sorell put out his hand and grasped hers.  “Otto’s only thought about you is that you gave him the happiest evening he ever spent in England,” he said with energy.  “You won’t misunderstand.”

Her eyes filled with tears.  But there was no time to say more.  The hansom drew up.