“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.”