“Well met, indeed!” said the young man, the gaiety in his look, a gaiety full of meaning, measuring itself against the momentary confusion in hers. “I have been hoping to hear of you—for a long time!—Lady Constance. Are you with the—the Hoopers—is it?”
“I am staying with my uncle and aunt. I only arrived yesterday.” The girl’s manner had become, in a few seconds, little less than repellent.
“Well, Oxford’s lively. You’ll find lots going on. The Eights begin the day after to-morrow, and I’ve got my people coming up. I hope you’ll let Mrs. Hooper bring you to tea to meet them? Oh, by the way, do you know Meyrick? I think you must have met him.” He turned to his companion, a fair-haired giant, evidently his junior. “Lord Meyrick—Lady Constance Bledlow. Will you come, Lady Connie?”
“I don’t know what my aunt’s engagements are,” said Constance stiffly.
The trio had withdrawn into the shade of a wide doorway belonging to an old Oxford inn. Annette was looking at the windows of the milliner’s shop next door.
“My mother shall do everything that is polite—everything in the world! And when may I come to call? You have no faith in my manners, I know!” laughed the young man. “How you did sit upon me at Cannes!” And again his brilliant eyes, fixed upon her, seemed to be saying all sorts of unspoken things.
“How has he been behaving lately?” said Constance drily, turning to Lord Meyrick, who stood grinning.
“Just as usual! He’s generally mad. Don’t depend on him for anything. But I hope you’ll let me do anything I can for you! I should be only too happy.”
The girl perceived the eager admiration with which the young fellow was regarding her, and her face relaxed.
“Thank you very much. Of course I know all about Mr. Falloden! At Cannes, we made a league to keep him in order.”