And retreating to a safe corner the Master watched with amusement the
flattering eagerness with which Mr. Pryce, who was a fellow of his own
college, was laying siege to the newcomer. Pryce was rapidly making a
great name for himself as a mathematician. "And is a second-rate fellow,
all the same," thought the Master, contemptuously, being like Uncle Ewen
a classic of the classics. But the face of little Alice Hooper, which he
caught from time to time, watching--with a strained and furtive
attention--the conversation between Pryce and her cousin, was really a
tragedy; at least a tragi-comedy. Some girls are born to be supplanted!

But who was it Sorell was, introducing to her now?--to the evident
annoyance of Mr. Pryce, who must needs vacate the field. A striking
figure of a youth! Golden hair, of a wonderful ruddy shade, and a clear
pale face; powerfully though clumsily made; and with a shy and sensitive
expression.

The Master turned to enquire of a Christ Church don who had come up to
speak to him.

"Who is that young man with a halo like the 'Blessed Damosel'?"

"Talking to Lady Constance Bledlow? Oh, don't you know? He is Sorell's
protégé, Radowitz, a young musician--and poet!--so they say. Sorell
discovered him in Paris, made great friends with him, and then persuaded
him to come and take the Oxford musical degree. He is at Marmion, where
the dons watch over him. But they say he has been abominably ragged by
the rowdy set in college--led by that man Falloden. Do you know him?"

"The fellow who got the Ireland last year?"