“Oh, you needn’t suppose I am apologising for Oxford!” cried Nora. “I think, of course, it’s the most interesting place in the world. It’s ideas that matter, and ideas come from the universities!” And the child-student of seventeen drew herself up proudly, as though she bore the honour of all academie on her sturdy shoulders.
Constance went into a fit of laughter.
“And I think they come from the people who do things, and not only from the people who read and write about them when they’re done. But goodness—what does it matter where they come from? Go away, Nora, and let me dress!”
“There are several things I want to know,” said Nora deliberately, not budging. “Where did you get to know Mr. Falloden?”
The colour ran up inconveniently in Connie’s cheeks.
“I told you,” she said impatiently. “No!—I suppose you weren’t there. I met him on the Riviera. He came out for the Christmas holidays. He was in the villa next to us, and we saw him every day.”
“How you must have hated him!” said Nora, with energy, her hands round her knees, her dark brows frowning.
Constance laughed again, but rather angrily.
“Why should I hate him, please? He’s extraordinarily clever—”
“Yes, but such a snob!” said Nora, setting her white teeth. Connie sprang up in bed.