seemed to be the case, and he pondered it with irritation....

"Oh, Duggy, isn't it ripping?" cried Trix, leaping and sidling at his
elbow like a young colt.

For they had reached the river, which lay a vivid blue, flashing under
the afternoon sun and the fleecy clouds. Along it lay the barges, a
curving many-tinted line, their tall flag-staffs flying the colours of
the colleges to which they belonged, their decks crowded with
spectators. Innumerable punts were crossing and recrossing the
river--the towing-path opposite was alive with men. Everything danced
and glittered, the white reflections in the river, the sun upon the
oars, the row of extravagantly green poplars on the further bank. How
strong and lusty was the May light!--the yellow green of the elms--the
gold of the buttercupped meadow! Only the dying moon in the high blue
suggested a different note; as of another world hidden behind the
visible world, waiting patiently, mysteriously, to take its place--to
see it fade.

"Oh, Duggy, there's somebody waving to you. Oh, it's Lord Meyrick. And
who's that girl with him? She's bowing to you, too. She's got an awfully
lovely frock! Oh, Duggy, do look at her!"

Falloden had long since looked at her. He turned carelessly to his
mother. "There's Meyrick, mother, on that barge in front. You know
you're dining with him to-night in Christ Church. And that's Constance
Bledlow beside him, to whom I asked you to write."

"Oh, is it? A good-looking girl," said his mother approvingly. "And who
is that man beside her, with the extraordinary hair? He looks like