It was clear, indeed, both to her relations and to Oxford in general, that Constance Bledlow was to be the heroine of the moment.  She would be the “star” of Commem., as so many other pretty or charming girls had been before her.  But in her case, it was no mere undergraduate success.  Old and young alike agreed to praise her.  Her rank inevitably gave her precedence at almost every dinner-party, Oxford society not being rich in the peerage.  The host, who was often the head of a college and grey-haired, took her in; and some other University big-wig, equally mature, flanked her on the right.  When she was undressing in her little room after these entertainments, she would give Annette a yawning or plaintive account of them.  “You know, Annette, I never talk to anybody under fifty now!” But at the time she never failed to play her part.  She was born with the wish to please, which, as every one knows, makes three parts of the art of pleasing.

Meanwhile Sorell, who was at all times a very popular man, in great request, accepted many more invitations than usual in order to see as much as he could of this triumphal progress of Lady Risborough’s daughter.  Oxford society was then much more limited than now, and he and she met often.  It seemed to him whenever he came across Douglas Falloden in Connie’s company during these days, that the young man’s pursuit of Constance, if it was a pursuit, was making no progress at all, and that his temper suffered accordingly.  Connie’s endless engagements were constantly in the way.  Sorell thought he detected once or twice that Falloden had taken steps to procure invitations to houses where Constance was expected; but when they did meet it was evident that he got but a small share of her attention.

Once Sorell saw them in what appeared intimate conversation at a Christ Church party.  Falloden—­who was flushed and frowning—­was talking rapidly in a low voice; and Constance was listening to him with a look half soft, half mocking.  Her replies seemed to irritate her companion, for they parted abruptly, Constance looking back to smile a sarcastic good-bye.

Again, on the Sunday before the Encaenia, a famous high churchman preached in the University church.  The church was densely crowded, and Sorell, sitting in the masters’ seats under the pulpit, saw Constance dimly, in the pews reserved for wives and families of the University doctors and masters, beneath the gallery.  Immediately to her right, in the very front of the undergraduates’ gallery, he perceived the tall form and striking head of Douglas Falloden; and when the sermon was over he saw that the young man was one of the first to push his way out.

“He hopes to waylay her,” thought Sorell.

If so, he was unsuccessful.  Sorell emerging with the stream into the High Street saw Connie’s black and white parasol a little ahead.  Falloden was on the point of overtaking her, when Radowitz, the golden-haired, the conspicuous, crossed his path.  Constance looked round, smiled, shook hands with Radowitz, and apparently not seeing Falloden in her rear, walked on, in merry talk with the beaming musician.  Sorell, perhaps, was the only person who noticed the look of pale fury with which Falloden dropped out of the crowded pathway, crossed the street, and entered a smart club opposite, exclusively frequented by “bloods.”