But Connie was determined to carry things off with a laugh.  She sat down beside Otto, looking businesslike.

“Douglas and I”—­the name came out quite pat—­“have been discussing how long it really takes to get married.”

Mrs. Mulholland laughed.

“Mrs. Hooper has been enjoying Alice’s trousseau so much, you needn’t expect she’ll let you get through yours in a hurry.”

“It’s going to be my trousseau, not Aunt Ellen’s,” said Connie with decision.  “Let me see.  It’s now nearly Christmas.  Didn’t we say the 12th of January?” She looked lightly at Falloden.

“Somewhere near it,” said Falloden, his smile at last answering hers.

“We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other,” said Connie coolly.  “Then”—­she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland’s knee—­“you bring him to Marseilles to meet us?”

“Certainly—­at your orders.”

Connie looked at Otto.

“Dear Otto?” The soft tone pleaded.  He started painfully.

“You’re awfully good to me.  But how can I come to be a burden on you?”

“But I shall go too,” said Mrs. Mulholland firmly.

Connie exclaimed in triumph.

“We four—­to front the desert!—­while he”—­she nodded towards Sorell—­“is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome.  You mayn’t know it”—­she addressed Sorell—­“but on Monday, January 24th—­I think I’ve got the date right—­you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian’s Villa.  The weather’s arranged for—­and the carriage is ordered.”

She looked at him askance; but her colour had risen.  So had his.  He looked down on her while Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden were both talking fast to Otto.

“You little witch!” said Sorell in a low voice—­“what are you after now?”

Connie laughed in his face.

“You’ll go—­you’ll see!”

* * * * *

The little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast.  Champagne was brought in, and Otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears and the incomparable greatness of Poland as usual.  Nobody minded.  After dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed Brahms and Schumann, in the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps.  But Connie insisted on an early departure.  “My guardian will have to sleep upon it—­and there’s really no time to lose.”  Every one took care not to see too much of the parting between her and Falloden.  Then she and Mrs. Mulholland were put into their carriage.  But Sorell preferred to walk home, and Falloden went back to Otto.

Sorell descended the hill towards Oxford.  The storm was dying away, and the now waning moon, which had shone so brilliantly over the frozen floods a day or two before, was venturing out again among the scudding clouds.  The lights in Christ Church Hall were out, but the beautiful city shone vaguely luminous under the night.