At the same time, from the second week of their acquaintance on the Riviera, he had wished to marry Constance Bledlow.  He had proposed to her, only to be promptly refused, and on one mad afternoon, in the woods of the Esterels, he had snatched a kiss.  What an amazing fuss she made about that kiss!  He thought she would have cut him for ever.  It was with the greatest difficulty, and only after a grovelling apology, that he had succeeded in making his peace.  Yet all through the days of her wrath he had been quite certain that he would in the end appease her; which meant a triumphant confidence on his part that to a degree she did not herself admit or understand, he had captured her.  Her resolute refusal to correspond with him, even after they had made it up and he was on the point of returning to Oxford, had piqued him indeed.  But he was aware that she was due at Oxford, as her uncle’s ward, some time in May; and meanwhile he had coolly impressed upon himself that in the interests of his work, it was infinitely better he should be without the excitement of her letters.  By the time she arrived, he would have got through the rereading of his principal books, which a man must do in the last term before the schools, and could begin to “slack.”  And after the schools, he could devote himself.

But now that they had met again, he was aware of doubts and difficulties that had not yet assailed him.  That she was not indifferent to him—­that his presence still played upon her nerves and senses—­so much he had verified.  But during their conversation at the Vice-Chancellor’s party he had become aware of something hard and resistant in her—­in her whole attitude towards him—­which had considerably astonished him.  His arrogant self-confidence had reckoned upon the effect of absence, as making her softer and more yielding when they met again.  The reverse seemed to be the case, and he pondered it with irritation....

“Oh, Duggy, isn’t it ripping?” cried Trix, leaping and sidling at his elbow like a young colt.

For they had reached the river, which lay a vivid blue, flashing under the afternoon sun and the fleecy clouds.  Along it lay the barges, a curving many-tinted line, their tall flag-staffs flying the colours of the colleges to which they belonged, their decks crowded with spectators.  Innumerable punts were crossing and recrossing the river—­the towing-path opposite was alive with men.  Everything danced and glittered, the white reflections in the river, the sun upon the oars, the row of extravagantly green poplars on the further bank.  How strong and lusty was the May light!—­the yellow green of the elms—­the gold of the buttercupped meadow!  Only the dying moon in the high blue suggested a different note; as of another world hidden behind the visible world, waiting patiently, mysteriously, to take its place—­to see it fade.

“Oh, Duggy, there’s somebody waving to you.  Oh, it’s Lord Meyrick.  And who’s that girl with him?  She’s bowing to you, too.  She’s got an awfully lovely frock!  Oh, Duggy, do look at her!”