Suddenly, out of the twilight, Falloden became aware of a pony-carriage descending the hill, and two ladies in it.  His blood leapt.  He recognised Constance Bledlow, and he supposed the other lady was Mrs. Mulholland.

Constance on her side knew in a moment from the bearing of his head and shoulders who was the tall man approaching them.  She spoke hurriedly to Mrs. Mulholland.

“Do you mind if I stop and speak to Mr. Falloden?”

Mrs. Mulholland shrugged her shoulders—­

“Do as you like, my dear.  Only don’t expect me to be very forthcoming!”

Constance stopped the carriage, and bent forward.

“Mr. Falloden!”

He came up to her.  Connie introduced him to Mrs. Mulholland, who bowed coldly.

“We have just been to see Otto Radowitz,” said Constance.  “We found him—­very sadly, to-day.”  Her hesitating voice, with the note of wistful appeal in it, affected him strangely.

“Yes, it has been a bad day.  I haven’t seen him at all.”

“He gave us tea, and talked a great deal.  He was rather excited; but he looked wretched.  And why has he turned against his doctor?”

“Has he turned against his doctor?” Falloden’s tone was one of surprise.  “I thought he liked him.”

“He said he was a croaker, and he wasn’t going to let himself be depressed by anybody—­doctor or no.”

Falloden was silent.  Mrs. Mulholland interposed.

“Perhaps you would like to walk a little way with Mr. Falloden?  I can manage the pony.”

Constance descended.  Falloden turned back with her towards Oxford.  The pony-carriage followed at some distance behind.

Then Falloden talked freely.  The presence of the light figure beside him, in its dark dress and close-fitting cap, seemed to thaw the chill of life.  He began rapidly to pour out his own anxieties, his own sense of failure.

“I am the last man in the world who ought to be looking after him; I know that as well as anybody,” he said, with emphasis.  “But what’s to be done?  Sorell can’t get away from college.  And Radowitz knows very few men intimately.  Neither Meyrick nor Robertson would be any better than I.”

“Oh, not so good—­not nearly so good!” exclaimed Constance eagerly.  “You don’t know!  He counts on you.”

Falloden shook his head.

“Then he counts on a broken reed.  I irritate and annoy him a hundred times a day.”

“Oh, no, no—­he does count on you,” repeated Connie in her soft, determined voice.  “If you give up, he will be much—­much worse off!” Then she added after a moment—­“Don’t give up!  I—­I ask you!”

“Then I shall stay.”

They moved on a few steps in silence, till Connie said eagerly—­

“Have you any news from Paris?”

“Yes; we wrote in the nick of time.  The whole thing was just being given up for lack of funds.  Now I have told him he may spend what he pleases, so long as he does the thing.”