‘He gave us tea, and talked a great deal. He was rather excited. But he looked wretched. And why has he turned against his doctor?’
‘Has he turned against his doctor?’ Falloden’s tone was one of surprise. ‘I thought he liked him.’
‘He said he was a croaker, and he wasn’t going to let himself be depressed by anybody—doctor or no.’
Falloden was silent. Mrs. Mulholland interposed.
‘Perhaps you would like to walk a little way with Mr. Falloden? I can manage the pony.’
Constance descended. Falloden turned back with her towards Oxford. The pony-carriage followed at some distance behind.
Then Falloden talked freely. The presence of the light figure beside him, in its dark dress and close-fitting cap, seemed to thaw the chill of life. He began rapidly to pour out his own anxieties, his own sense of failure.
‘I am the last man in the world who ought to be looking after him; I know that as well as anybody,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘But what’s to be done? Sorell can’t get away from college. And Radowitz knows very few men intimately. Neither Meyrick nor Robertson would be any better than me.’
‘Oh, not so good—not nearly so good!’ exclaimed Constance eagerly. ‘You don’t know! He counts on you.’
Falloden shook his head.