“I wonder why you are so angry with him, my dear Sarah,” said Miss Wenlock mildly.

“Because he has been bullying my nice boy, Radowitz!” said Mrs. Mulholland vehemently.  “I hear there has been a disgraceful amount of ragging in Marmion lately, and that Douglas Falloden—­can you conceive it?—­a man in his last term, whom the University imagines itself to be turning out as an educated specimen!—­is one of the ring-leaders—­the ring-leader.  It appears that Otto wears a frilled dress shirt—­why shouldn’t he?—­that, having been brought up in Paris till he was nineteen, he sometimes tucks his napkin under his chin—­that he uses French words when he needn’t—­that he dances like a Frenchman—­that he recites French poetry actually of his own making—­that he plays too well for a gentleman—­that he doesn’t respect the customs of the college, et cetera.  There is a sacred corner of the Junior Common Room, where no freshman is expected to sit after hall.  Otto sat in it—­quite innocently—­knowing nothing—­and, instead of apologising, made fun of Jim Meyrick and Douglas Falloden who turned him out.  Then afterwards he composed a musical skit on ‘the bloods,’ which delighted every one in college, who wasn’t a ‘blood.’  And now there is open war between him and them.  Otto doesn’t talk of it.  I hear of it from other people.  But he looks excited and pale—­he is a very delicate creature!—­and we, who are fond of him, live in dread of some violence.  I never can understand why the dons are so indulgent to ragging.  It is nothing but a continuation of school bullying.  It ought to be put down with the strongest possible hand.”

Miss Wenlock had listened in tremulous sympathy, nodding from time to time.  Constance sat silent and rather pale—­looting down.  But her mind was angry.  She said to herself that nobody ought to attack absent persons who can’t defend themselves,—­at least so violently.  And as Mrs. Mulholland seemed to wait for some remark from her, she said at last, with a touch of impatience: 

“I don’t think Mr. Radowitz minds much.  He came to us—­to my uncle’s—­to play last night.  He was as gay as possible.”

“Radowitz would make jokes with the hangman!” said Mrs. Mulholland.  “Ah, well, I think you know Douglas Falloden”—­the tone was just lightly touched with significance—­“and if you can lecture him—­do!” Then she abruptly changed her subject: 

“I suppose you have scarcely yet made acquaintance with your two aunts who live quite close to the Fallodens in Yorkshire?”

Constance looked up in astonishment.

“Do you know them?”

“Oh, quite well!” The strong wrinkled face flashed into laughter.  But suddenly the speaker checked herself, and laid a worn hand gently on Constance’s knee—­“You won’t mind if I tell you things?—­you won’t think me an impertinent old woman?  I knew your father”—­was there just an imperceptible pause on the words?—­“when he was quite