play to me to-morrow."

"Ah, I thought so!" said Falloden wrathfully. "He is an impossible
person. He wears a frilled shirt, scents himself, and recites his own
poems when he hasn't been asked. And he curries favour--abominably--with
the dons. He is a smug--of the first water. There is a movement going on
in college to suppress him. I warn you I may not be able to keep out
of it."

"He is an artist!" cried Constance. "You have only to look at him, to
talk to him, to see it. And artists are always persecuted by stupid
people. But you are not stupid!"

"Yes, I am, where _poseurs_ are concerned," said Falloden coldly. "I
prefer to be. Never mind. We won't excite ourselves. He is not worth it.
Perhaps he'll improve--in time. But there is another man I warn you
against--Mr. Herbert Pryce."

"A great friend of my cousins'," said Constance mockingly.

"I know. He is always flirting with the eldest girl. It is a shame; for
he will never marry her. He wants money and position, and he is so
clever he will get them. He is not a gentleman, and he rarely tells the
truth. But he is sure to make up to you. I thought I had better tell you
beforehand."

"My best thanks! You breathe charity!"

"No--only prudence. And after my schools I throw my books to the dogs,
and I shall have a fortnight more of term with nothing to do except--are