But who was it Sorell was, introducing to her now?—to the evident annoyance of Mr. Pryce, who must needs vacate the field. A striking figure of a youth! Golden hair, of a wonderful ruddy shade, and a clear pale face; powerfully though clumsily made; and with a shy and sensitive expression.
The Master turned to enquire of a Christ Church don who had come up to speak to him.
“Who is that young man with a halo like the ‘Blessed Damosel’?”
“Talking to Lady Constance Bledlow? Oh, don’t you know? He is Sorell’s protégé, Radowitz, a young musician—and poet!—so they say. Sorell discovered him in Paris, made great friends with him, and then persuaded him to come and take the Oxford musical degree. He is at Marmion, where the dons watch over him. But they say he has been abominably ragged by the rowdy set in college—led by that man Falloden. Do you know him?”
“The fellow who got the Ireland last year?”
The other nodded.
“As clever and as objectionable as they make ’em! Ah, here comes our great man!”
For amid a general stir, the Lord Chancellor had made his entrance, and was distributing greetings, as he passed up the hall, to his academic contemporaries and friends. He was a tall, burly man, with a strong black head and black eyes under bushy brows, combined with an infantile mouth and chin, long and happily caricatured in all the comic papers. But in his D.C.L. gown he made a very fine appearance; assembled Oxford was proud of him as one of the most successful of her sons; and his progress toward the dais was almost royal.
Suddenly, his voice—a famous voix d’or, well known in the courts and in Parliament—was heard above the general buzz. It spoke in astonishment and delight.
“Lady Constance! where on earth have you sprung from? Well, this is a pleasure!”