Lady Connie. Mrs. Humphry Ward

into silver by the moonlight. At the furthest edge, through the pushing pyramids of chestnut blossom and the dim drooping gold of the laburnums, could be seen the bastions and battlements of the old city wall, once a fighting reality, now tamed into the mere ornament and appendage of this quiet garden. Over the trees and over the walls rose the spires and towers of a wondrous city; while on the grass, or through the winding paths disappearing into bosky distances, flickered white dresses, and the slender forms of young men and maidens. A murmur of voices rose and fell on the warm night air; the sound of singing--the thin sweetness of boyish notes--came from the hall, whose decorated windows, brightly lit, shone out over the garden.

      "It's Oxford--and it's Brahms," said Constance. "I seem to have known it all before in music: the trees--the lawn--the figures--appearing and disappearing--the distant singing--"

      She spoke in a low, dreamy tone, her chin propped on her hand. Nothing could have been, apparently, quieter or more self-governed than her attitude. But her inner mind was full of tumult; resentful memory; uneasy joy; and a tremulous fear, both of herself and of the man at her feet. And the man knew it, or guessed it. He dragged himself a little nearer to her on the grass.

      "Why didn't you tell me when you were coming?"

      The tone was light and laughing.

      "I owe you no account of my actions," said the girl quickly.

      "We agreed to be friends."

      "No! We are not friends." She spoke with suppressed violence, and breaking a twig from the tree overshadowing her, she threw it from her, as though the action were a relief.

      He sat up, looking up into her face, his hands clasped round his knees.

      "That means you haven't forgiven me?"

      "It means that I judge and despise you," she said passionately; "and that it was not an attraction to me to find you here--quite the reverse!"

      "Yet here you are--sitting with me in this garden--and you are looking delicious! That dress becomes you so--you are so graceful--so exquisitely graceful. And you never found a more perfect setting than this place--these lawns and trees--and the old college walls. Oxford was waiting for you, and you for Oxford. Are you laughing at me?"

      "Naturally!"

      "I could rave on by the hour if you would listen to me."

      "We have both something better to do--thank goodness! May I ask if you are doing any work?"

      He laughed.

      "Ten hours a day. This is my first evening out since March. I came to meet you."

      Constance bowed ironically. Then for the first time, since their conversation began, it might have been seen that she had annoyed him.

      "Friends are not allowed to doubt each other's statements!" he said with animation. "You see I still persist that you allowed me that name, when--you refused me a better. As to my work, ask any of my friends. Talk to Meyrick. He is a dear boy, and will tell you anything you like. He and I 'dig' together in Beaumont Street. My schools are now only three weeks off. I work four hours in the morning. Then I play till six--and get in another six hours between then and 1 a.m."

      "Wonderful!" said Constance coolly. "Your ways at Cannes were different. It's a mercy there's no Monte Carlo within reach."

      "I play when I play, and work when I work!" he said with emphasis. "The only thing to hate and shun always--is moderation."

      "And yet you call yourself a classic! Well, you seem to be sure of your First. At least Uncle Ewen says so."

      "Ewen Hooper? He is a splendid fellow--a real Hellenist. He and I get on capitally. About your aunt--I am not so sure."

      "Nobody obliges you to know her," was the tranquil reply.

      "Ah!--but if she has the keeping of you! Are you coming to tea with me and my people? I have got a man in college to lend me his rooms. My mother and sister will be up for two nights. Very inconsiderate of them--with my schools coming on--but they would do it. Thursday?--before the Eights? Won't my mother be chaperon enough?"

      "Certainly. But it only puts off the evil day."

      "When I must grovel to Mrs. Hooper?--if I am to see anything of you? Splendid! You are trying to discipline me again--as you did at Cannes!"

      In the semidarkness she could see the amusement in his eyes. Her own feeling, in its mingled weakness and antagonism, was that of the feebler wrestler just holding his ground, and fearing every moment to be worsted by some unexpected trick of the game. She gave no signs of it, however.

      "I tried, and I succeeded!" she said, as she rose. "You found out that rudeness to my friends didn't answer! Shall we go and get some lemonade? Wasn't that why you brought me here? I think I see the tent."

      They walked on together. She seemed to see--exultantly--that she had both angered and excited him.

      "I am never rude," he declared. "I am only honest! Only nobody, in this mealy-mouthed world, allows you to be honest; to say and do exactly what represents you. But I shall not be rude to anybody under your wing. Promise me to come to tea, and I will appear to call on your aunt and behave like any sucking dove."

      Constance considered it.

      "Lady Laura must write to Aunt Ellen."

      "Of course. Any other commands?"

      "Not at present."

      "Then let me offer some humble counsels in return. I beg you not to make friends with that red-haired poseur I saw you talking to in the hall."

      "Mr. Radowitz!--the musician? I thought him delightful! He is coming to play to me to-morrow."

      "Ah, I thought so!" said Falloden wrathfully. "He is an impossible person. He wears a frilled shirt, scents himself, and recites his own poems when he hasn't been asked. And he curries favour--abominably--with the dons. He is a smug--of the first water. There is a movement going on in college to suppress him. I warn you I may not be able to keep out of it."

      "He is an artist!" cried Constance. "You have only to look at him, to talk to him, to see it. And artists are always persecuted by stupid people. But you are not stupid!"

      "Yes, I am, where poseurs are concerned," said Falloden coldly. "I prefer to be. Never mind. We won't excite ourselves. He is not worth it. Perhaps he'll improve--in time. But there is another man I warn you against--Mr. Herbert Pryce."

      "A great friend of my cousins'," said Constance mockingly.

      "I know. He is always flirting with the eldest girl. It is a shame; for he will never marry her. He wants money and position, and he is so clever he will get them. He is not a gentleman, and he rarely tells the truth. But he is sure to make up to you. I thought I had better tell you beforehand."

      "My best thanks! You breathe charity!"

      "No--only prudence. And after my schools I throw my books to the dogs, and I shall have a fortnight more of term with nothing to do except--are you going to ride?" he asked her abruptly. "You said at Cannes that you meant to ride when you came to Oxford."

      "My aunt doesn't approve."

      "As if that would stop you! I can tell you where you can get a horse--a mare that would just suit you. I know all the stables in Oxford. Wait till we meet on Thursday. Would you care to ride in Lathom Woods? (He named a famous estate near Oxford.) I have a permit, and could get you one. They are relations of mine."

      Constance excused herself, but scarcely with decision. Her plans, she said, must depend upon her cousins. Falloden smiled and dropped the subject for the moment. Then, as they moved on together through the sinuous ways of the garden, flooded with the scent of hawthorns and lilacs, towards the open tent crowded with folk at the farther end, there leapt in both the same intoxicating sense of youth and strength, the same foreboding of passion, half restlessness, and half enchantment. …

      "I looked for you