But under the gentleness, Constance opened again, and expanded.  Mrs. Mulholland seemed to watch her with increasing kindness.  At last, she said abruptly—­

“I have already heard of you from two charming young men.”

Constance opened a pair of conscious eyes.  It was as though she were always expecting to hear Falloden’s name, and protecting herself against the shock of it.  But the mistake was soon evident.

“Otto Radowitz told me you had been so kind to him!  He is an enthusiastic boy, and a great friend of mine.  He deals always in superlatives.  That is so refreshing here in Oxford where we are all so clever that we are deadly afraid of each other, and everybody talks drab.  And his music is divine!  I hear they talk of him in Paris as another Chopin.  He passed his first degree examination the other day magnificently!  Come and hear him some evening at my house.  Jim Meyrick, too, has told me all about you.  His mother is a cousin of mine, and he condescends occasionally to come and see me.  He is, I understand, a ‘blood.’  All I know is that he would be a nice youth, if he had a little more will of his own, and had nicer friends!” The small black eyes under the white hair flamed.

Constance started.  Miss Wenlock put up a soothing hand—­

“Dear Sarah, are you thinking of any one?”

“Of course I am!” said Mrs. Mulholland firmly.  “There is a young gentleman at Marmion who thinks the world belongs to him.  Oh, you know Mr. Falloden, Grace!  He got the Newdigate last year, and the Greek Verse the other day.  He got the Ireland, and he’s going to get a First.  He might have been in the Eleven, if he’d kept his temper, and they say he’s going to be a magnificent tennis player.  And a lot of other tiresome distinctions.  I believe he speaks at the Union, and speaks well—­bad luck to him!”

Constance laughed, fidgeted, and at last said, rather defiantly—­

“It’s sometimes a merit to be disliked, isn’t it?  It means that you’re not exactly like other people.  Aren’t we all turned out by the gross!”

Mrs. Mulholland looked amused.

“Ah, but you see I know something about this young man at home.  His mother doesn’t count.  She has her younger children, and they make her happy.  And of course she is absurdly proud of Douglas.  But the father and this son Douglas are of the same stuff.  They have a deal more brains and education than their forbears ever wanted; but still, in soul, they remain our feudal lords and superiors, who have a right to the services of those beneath them.  And everybody is beneath them—­especially women; and foreigners—­and artists—­and people who don’t shoot or hunt.  Ask their neighbours—­ask their cottagers.  Whenever the revolution comes, their heads will be the first to go!  At the same time they know—­the clever ones—­that they can’t keep their place except by borrowing the weapons of the class they really fear—­the professional class—­the writers and thinkers—­the lawyers and journalists.  And so they take some trouble to sharpen their own brains.  And the cleverer they are, the more tyrannous they are.  And that, if you please, is Mr. Douglas Falloden!”