“Thank you—­I must go,” he said brusquely, as Connie tried to detain him.  “There is so much to do nowadays.  I shall be leaving Flood next week.  The agent will be in charge.”

“Leaving—­for good?” she asked, in her appealing voice, as they stood apart.

“Probably—­for good.”

“I don’t know how to say—­how sorry I am!”

“Thank you.  But I am glad it’s over.  When you get back to Oxford—­I shall venture to come and call.”

“That’s a promise,” she said, smiling at him.  “Where will you be?”

“Ask Otto Radowitz!  Good-bye!”

Her start of surprise pleased him.  He approached Radowitz.  “Shall I hear from you?” he said stiffly.

“Certainly!” The boy looked up.  “I will write to-morrow.”

* * * * *

The garden door had no sooner closed on Falloden than Radowitz threw himself back, and went into a fit of laughter, curious, hollow laughter.

Sorell looked at him anxiously.

“What’s the meaning of that, Otto?”

“You’ll laugh, when you hear!  Falloden and I are going to set up house together, in the cottage on Boar’s Hill.  He’s going to read—­and I’m to be allowed a piano, and a piano-player.  Queer, isn’t it?”

“My dear Otto!” cried Sorell, in dismay.  “What on earth do you mean?”

“Well, he offered it—­said he’d come and look after me.  I don’t know what possessed him—­nor me either.  I didn’t exactly accept, but I shall accept.  Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because Falloden’s the last person in the world to look after anybody—­least of all, you!” said Sorell with indignant energy.  “But of course it’s a joke!  You mean it for a joke.  If he proposed it, it was like his audacity.  Nobody would, who had a shred of delicacy.  I suppose he wants to disarm public opinion!”

Radowitz looked oddly at Sorell from under his finely marked eyebrows.

“I don’t believe he cares a hang for public opinion,” he said slowly.  “Nor do I. If you could come, of course that would settle it.  And if you won’t come to see me, supposing Falloden and I do share diggings, that settles it too.  But you will come, old man—­you will come!”

And he nodded, smiling, at hid quasi-guardian.  Neither of them noticed Connie.  Yet she had hung absorbed on their conversation, the breath fluttering on her parted lips.  And when their talk paused, she bent forward, and laid her hand on Sorell’s arm: 

“Let him!” she said pleadingly—­“let him do it!”

Sorell looked at her in troubled perplexity.  “Let Douglas Falloden make some amends to his victim; if he can, and will.  Don’t be so unkind as to prevent it!” That, he supposed, was what she meant.  It seemed to him the mere sentimental unreason of the young girl, who will not believe that there is any irrevocableness in things at all, till life teaches her.

Radowitz too!  What folly, what mistaken religiosity could make him dream of consenting to such a house-mate through this winter which might be his last!