He calmed down.

“At least I am not deaf, like Beethoven,” he said, trying to please her.  “That would have been worse.  Do you know, last night Falloden and I had a glorious talk?  He was awfully decent.  He made me tell him all about Poland and my people.  He never scoffed once.  He makes me do what the doctor says.  And last night—­when it was freezing cold—­he brought a rug and wrapped it round me.  Think of that!”—­he looked at her—­half-shamefaced, half-laughing—­“Falloden!”

Her eyes shone.

“I’m glad!” she said softly.  “I’m glad!”

“Yes, but do you know why he’s kind—­why he’s here at all?” he asked her abruptly.

“What’s the good of silly questions?” she said hastily.  “Take it as it comes.”

He laughed.

“He does it—­I’m going to say it!—­yes, I am—­and you are not to be angry—­he does it because—­simply—­he’s in love with you!”

Connie flushed again, more deeply, and he, already alarmed by his own boldness, looked at her nervously.

“You are quite wrong.”  Her tone was quiet, but decided.  “He did it, first of all, because of what you did for his father—­”

“I did nothing!” interposed Radowitz.

She took no notice.

“And secondly”—­her voice shook a little—­“because—­he was sorry.  Now—­now—­he is doing it”—­suddenly her smile flashed out, with its touch of humour—­“just simply because he likes it!”

It was a bold assertion.  She knew it.  But she straightened her slight shoulders, prepared to stick to it.

Radowitz shook his head.

“And what am I doing it for?  Do you remember when I said to you I loathed him?”

“No—­not him.”

“Well, something in him—­the chief thing, it seemed to me then.  I felt towards him really—­as a man might feel towards his murderer—­or the murderer of some one else, some innocent, helpless person who had given no offence.  Hatred—­loathing—­abhorrence!—­you couldn’t put it too strongly.  Well then,”—­he began poking at the fire, while he went on thinking aloud—­“God brought us together in that strange manner.  By the way”—­he turned to her—­“are you a Christian?”

“I—­I don’t know.  I suppose I am.”

“I am,” he said firmly.  “I am a practising Catholic.  Catholicism with us Poles is partly religion, partly patriotism—­do you understand?  I go to confession—­I am a communicant.  And for some time I couldn’t go to Communion at all.  I always felt Falloden’s hand on my shoulder, as he was pushing me down the stairs; and I wanted to kill him!—­just that!  You know our Polish blood runs hotter than yours.  I didn’t want the college to punish him.  Not at all.  It was my affair.  After I saw you in town, it grew worse—­it was an obsession.  When we first got to Yorkshire, Sorell and I, and I knew that Falloden was only a few miles away, I never could get quit of it—­of the thought that some day—­somewhere—­I should