“Where did you ride this morning?” said Nora suddenly.

“Somewhere out towards Godstowe,” said Constance vaguely.

“I saw Mr. Falloden riding down the High this morning, when I was on the way to the Bodleian.  He just looks splendid on horseback—­I must give him that.  Why doesn’t he ride with you sometimes, as he chose your horse?”

“I understand the whole of Oxford would have a fit if a girl went out riding with an undergraduate,” said Constance, her voice muffled in the pillow.  Then, after a moment she sprang up, and began to brush her hair.

“Mr. Falloden’s not an undergraduate now.  He can do what he likes,” said Nora.

Constance made no reply.  Nora observed her with a pair of shrewd brown eyes.

“There are two bouquets for you downstairs,” she said abruptly.

Constance turned round startled, almost hidden by the thick veil of her brown hair.

“Who’s sent them?”

“One comes from Mr. Radowitz—­a beauty.  The other’s from Lord Meyrick.  Isn’t he a jolly boy?”

Constance turned back to the dressing-table, disappointed.  She had half expected another name.  And yet she would have felt insulted if Falloden had dared to send her flowers that evening, without a word of apology—­of regret for their happy hour, spoilt by his absurd demands.

“Well, I can’t carry them both; and one will be offended.”

“Oh, you must take Radowitz’s!” cried Nora.  “Just to show that you stand by him.  Mr. Sorell says everybody likes him in college—­except Mr. Falloden’s horrid set, who think themselves the lords of creation.  They say that Otto Radowitz made such an amusing speech last week in the college debating society attacking ‘the bloods.’  Of course they didn’t hear it, because they have their own club, and turn up their nose at the college society.  But it’s going to be printed somewhere, and then it’ll make them still more furious with him.  They’ll certainly pay him out some time.”

“All right,” said Constance, who had suddenly recovered colour and vivacity.  “I’ll take Mr. Radowitz’s bouquet.”

“Then, of course, Lord Meyrick will feel snubbed.  Serve him right!  He shouldn’t be so absurdly fond of Mr. Falloden!”

Nora was quite aware that she might be provoking Constance.  She did it with her eyes open.  Her curiosity and concern after what Alice had told her of the preceding night’s ball were becoming hard to conceal.  Would Connie really engage herself to that horrid man?

But no rise could be got out of Constance.  She said nothing.  Annette appeared, and the important business of hair-dressing went forward.  Nora, however, had yet another fly to throw.

“Alice passed Mr. Falloden on the river this afternoon—­he was with the Mansons, and another lady, an awfully pretty person.  Mr. Falloden was teaching her to row.  Nobody knew who she was.  But she and he seemed great friends.  Alice saw them also walking about together at Iffley, while the others were having tea.”