Vice-Chancellor's party to-night. I think it would interest you. After
all, Oxford's not like other places. I think you said last night you
knew some undergraduates--"

"I know Mr. Falloden of Marmion," said Constance, "and Mr. Sorell."

The Reader's countenance broke into smiles.

"Sorell? The dearest fellow in the world! He and I help each other a
good deal, though of course we differ--and fight--sometimes. But that's
the salt of life. Yes, I remember, your mother used to mention Sorell in
her letters. Well, with those two and ourselves, you'll have plenty of
starting-points. Ah, luncheon!" For the bell rang, and sent Constance
hurrying upstairs to take off her things.

As she washed her hands, her thoughts were very busy with the incidents
of her morning's walk. The colours had suddenly freshened in the Oxford
world. No doubt she had expected them to freshen; but hardly so soon. A
tide of life welled up in her--a tide of pleasure. And as she stood a
moment beside the open window of her room before going down, looking at
the old Oxford garden just beneath her, and the stately college front
beyond, Oxford itself began to capture her, touching her magically,
insensibly, as it had touched the countless generations before her. She
was the child of two scholars, and she had been brought up in a society
both learned and cosmopolitan, traversed by all the main currents and
personalities of European politics, but passionate all the same for the
latest find in the Forum, the newest guesses in criticism, for any fresh
light that the present could shed upon the past. And when she looked
back upon the moments of those Roman years which had made the sharpest
mark upon her, she saw three figures stand out--her gracious and