voices rose and fell on the warm night air; the sound of singing--the
thin sweetness of boyish notes--came from the hall, whose decorated
windows, brightly lit, shone out over the garden.

"It's Oxford--and it's Brahms," said Constance. "I seem to have known it
all before in music: the trees--the lawn--the figures--appearing and
disappearing--the distant singing--"

She spoke in a low, dreamy tone, her chin propped on her hand. Nothing
could have been, apparently, quieter or more self-governed than her
attitude. But her inner mind was full of tumult; resentful memory;
uneasy joy; and a tremulous fear, both of herself and of the man at her
feet. And the man knew it, or guessed it. He dragged himself a little
nearer to her on the grass.

"Why didn't you tell me when you were coming?"

The tone was light and laughing.

"I owe you no account of my actions," said the girl quickly.

"We agreed to be friends."

"No! We are not friends." She spoke with suppressed violence, and
breaking a twig from the tree overshadowing her, she threw it from her,
as though the action were a relief.

He sat up, looking up into her face, his hands clasped round his knees.

"That means you haven't forgiven me?"