children's frocks; the overhanging masses of hawthorn and lilac that
here and there thrust themselves, effervescent and rebellious, through
and over college walls:--everything shimmered and shone in the May
sunlight. The air too was tonic and gay, a rare thing for Oxford; and
Connie, refreshed by sleep, walked with such a buoyant and swinging step
that her stout maid could hardly keep up with her. Many a passer-by
observed her. Men on their way to lecture, with battered caps and gowns
slung round their necks, threw sharp glances at the tall girl in black,
with the small pale face, so delicately alive, and the dark eyes that
laughed--aloof and unabashed--at all they saw.

"What boys they are!" said Constance presently, making a contemptuous
lip. "They ought to be still in the nursery."

"What--the young men in the caps, my lady?"

"Those are the undergraduates, Annette--the boys who live in the
colleges."

"They don't stare like the Italian young gentlemen," said Annette,
shrugging her shoulders. "Many a time I wanted to box their ears for the
way they looked at you in the street."

Connie laughed. "I liked it! They were better-looking than these boys.
Annette, do you remember that day two years ago when I took you to that
riding competition--what did they call it?--that gymkhana--in the Villa
Borghese--and we saw all those young officers and their horses? What
glorious fellows they were, most of them! and how they rode!"

Her cheek flushed to the recollection. For a moment the Oxford street