Connie, a little flushed and excited, stepped into the hall, and there perceived Mrs. Hooper behind the door.

“You are rather late, Constance,” said that lady coldly.  “But, of course, it doesn’t matter.  The servants are at their dinner still, so I opened the door.  So you know Mr. Sorell?”

From which Constance perceived that her aunt had observed her approach to the house, in Mr. Sorell’s company, through the little side window of the hall.  She straightened her shoulders impatiently.

“My father and mother knew him in Rome, Aunt Ellen.  He used to come to our apartment.  Is Uncle Ewen in the study?  I want to speak to him.”

She knocked and went in.  Standing with her back to the door she said abruptly—­

“I hope you won’t mind, Uncle Ewen, but I’ve been buying a few things we want, for my room and Annette’s.  When I go, of course they can be turned out.  But may I tell the shop now to send them in?”

The Reader turned in some embarrassment, his spectacles on his nose.

“My dear girl, anything to make you comfortable!  But I wish you had consulted me.  Of course, we would have got anything you really wanted.”

“Oh, that would have been dreadfully unfair!” laughed Constance.  “It’s my fault, you see.  I’ve got far too many dresses.  One seemed not to be able to do without them at Cannes.”

“Well, you won’t want so many here,” said Dr. Ewen cheerfully, as he rose from his table crowded with books.  “We’re all pretty simple at Oxford.  We ought to be of course—­even our guests.  It’s a place of training.”  He dropped a Greek word absently, putting away his papers the while, and thinking of the subject with which he had just been busy.  Constance opened the door again to make her escape, but the sound recalled Dr. Ewen’s thoughts.

“My dear—­has your aunt asked you?  We hope you’ll come with us to the Vice-Chancellor’s party to-night.  I think it would interest you.  After all, Oxford’s not like other places.  I think you said last night you knew some undergraduates—­”

“I know Mr. Falloden of Marmion,” said Constance, “and Mr. Sorell.”

The Reader’s countenance broke into smiles.

“Sorell?  The dearest fellow in the world!  He and I help each other a good deal, though of course we differ—­and fight—­sometimes.  But that’s the salt of life.  Yes, I remember, your mother used to mention Sorell in her letters.  Well, with those two and ourselves, you’ll have plenty of starting-points.  Ah, luncheon!” For the bell rang, and sent Constance hurrying upstairs to take off her things.