“I looked for you everywhere,” said Sorell, as he made his way to Constance through the crowd of departing guests in the college gateway. “Where did you hide yourself? The Lord Chancellor was sad not to say good-bye to you.”
Constance summoned an answering tone of regret.
“How good of him! I was only exploring the garden—with Mr. Falloden.”
At the name, there was a quick and stiffening change in Sorell’s face.
“You knew him before? Yes—he told me. A queer fellow—very able. They say he’ll get his First. Well—we shall meet at the Eights and then we’ll make plans. Goodnight.”
He smiled on her, and went his way, ruminating uncomfortably as he walked back to his college along the empty midnight streets. Falloden? It was to be hoped there was nothing in that! How Ella Risborough would have detested the type! But there was much that was not her mother in the daughter. He vowed to himself that he would do his small best to watch over Ella Risborough’s child.
There was little or no conversation in the four-wheeler that bore the Hooper party home. Mrs. Hooper and Alice were stiffly silent, while the Reader chaffed Constance a little about her successes of the evening. But he, too, was sleepy and tired, and the talk dropped. As they lighted their bedroom candles in the hall, Mrs. Hooper said to her niece, in her thin, high tone, mincing and coldly polite:
“I think it would have been better, Constance, if you had told us you knew Lord Glaramara. I don’t wish to find fault, but such—such concealments—are really very awkward!”
Constance opened her eyes. She could have defended herself easily. She had no idea that her aunt was unaware of the old friendship between her parents and Lord Glaramara, who was no more interesting to her personally than many others of their Roman habitués, of whom the world was full. But she was too preoccupied to spend any but the shortest words on such a silly thing.