She was sorry, bitterly sorry for Radowitz—­the victim.  But she loved Falloden—­the offender!  It was the perennial injustice of passion, the eternal injustice of human things.

* * * * *

When Falloden was half-way up the hill, he left the road, and took a short cut through fields, by a path which led him to the back of the cottage, where its sitting-room window opened on the garden and the view.  As he approached the house, he saw that the sitting-room blinds had not been drawn, and some of the windows were still open.  The whole room was brilliantly lit by fire and lamp.  Otto was there alone, sitting at the piano, with his back to the approaching spectator and the moonlit night outside.  He was playing something with his left hand; Falloden could see him plainly.  Suddenly, he saw the boy’s figure collapse.  He was still sitting, but his face was buried in his arm which was lying on the piano; and through the open window, Falloden heard a sound which, muffled as it was, produced upon him a strange and horrible impression.  It was a low cry, or groan—­the voice of despair itself.

Falloden stood motionless.  All he knew was that he would have given anything in the world to recall the past; to undo the events of that June evening in the Marmion quadrangle.

Then, before Otto could discover his presence, he went noiselessly round the corner of the house, and entered it by the front door.  In the hall, he called loudly to the ex-scout, as he went upstairs, so that Radowitz might know he had come back.  When he returned, Radowitz was sitting over the fire with sheets of scribbled music-paper on a small table before him.  His eyes shone, his cheeks were feverishly bright.  He turned with forced gaiety at the sight of Falloden—­

“Well, did you meet them on the road?”

“Lady Constance, and her friend?  Yes.  I had a few words with them.  How are you now?  What did the doctor say to you?”

“What on earth does it matter!” said Radowitz impatiently.  “He is just a fool—­a young one—­the worst sort—­I can put up with the old ones.  I know my own case a great deal better than he does.”

“Does he want you to stop working?” Falloden stood on the hearth, looking down on the huddled figure in the chair; himself broad and tall and curly-haired, like the divine Odysseus, when Athene had breathed ambrosial youth upon him.  But he was pale, and his eyes frowned perpetually under his splendid brows.

“Some nonsense of that sort!” said Radowitz.  “Don’t let’s talk about it.”

They went into dinner, and Radowitz sent for champagne.

“That’s the only sensible thing the idiot said—­that I might have that stuff whenever I liked.”