Monstrous!  What kind of qualities had Falloden to fit him for such a task?  All very well, indeed, that he should feel remorse!  Sorell hoped he might feel it a good deal more sharply yet.  But that he should ease his remorse at Otto’s expense, by offering what he could never fulfil, and by taking the place of some one on whom Otto could have really leaned—­that seemed to Sorell all of a piece with the man’s egotism, his epicurean impatience of anything that permanently made him uncomfortable or unhappy.  He put something of this into impetuous words as well as he could.  But Otto listened in silence.  So did Constance.  And Sorell presently felt that there was a secret bond between them.

* * * * *

Before the aunts returned, the rectory pony-carriage came for Radowitz, who was not strong enough to walk both ways.  Sorell and Constance were left alone.

Sorell, observing her, was struck anew by the signs of change and development in her.  It was as though her mother and her mother’s soul showed through the girl’s slighter temperament.  The old satiric aloofness in Connie’s brown eyes, an expression all her own, and not her mother’s, seemed to have slipped away; Sorell missed it.  Ella Risborough’s sympathetic charm had replaced it, but with suggestions of hidden conflict and suffering, of which Lady Risborough’s bright sweetness had known nothing.  It was borne in upon him that, since her arrival in Oxford, Constance had gone through a great deal, and gone through it alone.  For after all what had his efforts amounted to?  What can a man friend do for a young girl in the fermenting years of her youth!  And when the man friend knows very well that, but for an iron force upon himself, he himself would be among her lovers?  Sorell felt himself powerless—­in all the greater matters—­and was inclined to think that he deserved to be powerless.  Yet he had done his best; and through his Greek lessons he humbly knew that he had helped her spiritual growth, just as the Greek immortals had helped and chastened his own youth.  They had been reading Homer together—­parts both of the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey”; and through “that ageless mouth of all the world,” what splendid things had spoken to her!—­Hector’s courage, and Andromache’s tenderness, the bitter sorrow of Priam, the pity of Achilles, mother love and wife love, death and the scorn of death.  He had felt her glow and tremble in the grip of that supreme poetry; for himself he had found her the dearest and most responsive of pupils.

But what use was anything, if after all, as Radowitz vowed, she was in love with Douglas Falloden?  The antagonism between the man of Scroll’s type—­disinterested, pure-minded, poetic, and liable, often, in action to the scrupulosity which destroys action; and the men of Falloden’s type—­strong, claimant, self-centred, arrogant, determined—­is perennial.  Nor can a man of the one type ever understand the attraction for women of the other.