“Let me teach you!” And he had bent forward, with his most brilliant and imperious look, his hand upon her reins.

But Constance, surprised and ruffled, had protested that Sorell had been her mother’s dear friend, and was now her own.  She could not and would not give up her lessons.  Why indeed should she?

“Because friends”—­Falloden had laid a passionate emphasis on the word—­“must have some regard—­surely—­to each other’s likes and dislikes.  If you have an enemy, tell me—­he or she shall be mine—­instantly!  Sorell dislikes me.  You will never hear any good of me from him.  And, of course, Radowitz hates me.  I have given him good cause.  Promise—­at least—­that you will not dance with Radowitz again.  You don’t know what I suffered last night.  He has the antics of a monkey!”

Whereupon the quarrel between them had broken like thunder, Constance denouncing the arrogance and unkindness that could ask such promises of her; Falloden steadily, and with increasing bitterness, pressing his demand.

And so to the last scene between them, at the gate.

Was it a breach?—­or would it all be made up that very night at the
Magdalen ball?

No!—­it was and should be a breach!  Constance fought back her tears, and rode proudly home.

* * * * *

“What are you going to wear to-night?” said Nora, putting her head in at Constance’s door.  Constance was lying down by Annette’s strict command, in preparation for her second ball, which was being given by Magdalen, where the college was reported to have surpassed itself in the lavishness of all the preparations made for lighting up its beautiful walks and quadrangles.

Constance pointed languidly to the sofa, where a creation in white silk and tulle, just arrived from London, had been laid out by the reverential hands of Annette.

“Why on earth does one go to balls?” said Constance, gloomily pressing both hands upon a pair of aching temples.

Nora shut the door behind her, and came to the side of the bed.

“It’s time to dress,” she said firmly.  “Alice says you had a succes fou last night.”

“Go away, and don’t talk nonsense!” Constance turned on her side, and shut her eyes.

“Oh, Alice hadn’t a bad time either!” said Nora, complacently, sitting on the bed.  “Herbert Pryce seems to have behaved quite decently.  Shall I tell you something?” The laughing girl stooped over Connie, and said in her ear—­“Now that Herbert knows it would be no good proposing to you, he thinks it might be a useful thing to have you for a relation.”

“Don’t be horrid!” said Constance.  “If I were Alice—­”

“You’d punch my head?” Nora laughed.  “All very well.  But Alice doesn’t much care why Herbert Pryce marries her, so long as he does marry her.”

Constance did not reply.  She continued to feign a headache.  But all the time she was thinking of the scene in the wood that morning, when she and Falloden had—­to amuse themselves—­plotted the rise in life, and the matrimonial happiness, of Herbert and Alice.  How little they had cared for what they talked about!  They talked only that they might laugh together—­hear each other’s voices, look into each other’s eyes—­