Commem. week itself, however, would give a man in love plenty of chances.  Sorell was well aware of it.  Monday dawned with misty sunshine after much rain.  In the Turl after luncheon, Sorell met Nora Hooper hurrying along with note-books under her arm.  They turned down Brasenose Lane together, and she explained that she was on her way to the Bodleian where she was already at work on her first paid job.  Her pleasure in it, and the childish airs she gave herself in regard to it, touched and amused Sorell, with whom—­through the Greek lessons—­she had become a great favourite.

As they parted at the doorway leading to the Bodleian, she said with a mischievous look—­

“Did you know Mr. Falloden’s party is off?”

And she explained that for the following day, Falloden had arranged the most elaborate and exclusive of river-parties, with tea in the private gardens of a famous house, ten miles from Oxford.  His mother and sister had been coming down for it, and he had asked other people from London.

“It was all for Connie—­and Connie’s had to scratch!  And Mr. Falloden has put it all off.  He says his mother, Lady Laura, has a chill and can’t come, but every one knows—­it’s Connie!”

She and Sorell smiled at each other.  They had never had many words on the subject, but they understood each other perfectly.

“What made her scratch?” asked Sorell, wondering.

“Royalties,” said Nora shortly, with a democratic nose in air.

It appeared that a certain travelled and artistic Princess had been spending the week-end in a ducal house in the neighbourhood.  So, too, had the ex-Viceroy.  And hearing from him that the only daughter “of those dear Risboroughs” was at Oxford, twelve miles off, her Royal Highness, through him, had “commanded” Constance for tea under the ducal roof on Tuesday.  A carriage was to be sent for her, and the ex-Viceroy undertook to convey her back to Oxford afterwards, he being due himself to dine and sleep at the Vice-Chancellor’s the night before the Encaenia.

“Constance didn’t want to go a bit.  She was dreadfully annoyed.  But father and mother made her.  So she sent a note to Mr. Falloden, and he came round.  She was out, but Alice saw him.  Alice says he scarcely said a word, but you could feel he was in a towering rage.”

“Poor Falloden!” said Sorell.

Nora’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, but so good for him!  I’m sure he’s always throwing over other people.  Now he knows

     “’Golden lads and lasses must
     Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.’”

“Vandal!” cried Sorell—­“to twist such a verse!”

Nora laughed, threw him a friendly nod, and vanished up the steps of the Bodleian.

But Falloden’s hour came!