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"Will you come for a rehearsal to-morrow?" he asked her. "Otto comes back the day after." "No, no! I won't hear anything, not a note till he comes! But is he strong enough?" she added wistfully. Strong enough, she meant, to bear agitation and surprise. But Falloden reported that Sorell knew everything that was intended, and approved.
She could not and would not give up her lessons. Why indeed should she? "Because friends" Falloden had laid a passionate emphasis on the word "must have some regard surely to each other's likes and dislikes. If you have an enemy, tell me he or she shall be mine instantly! Sorell dislikes me. You will never hear any good of me from him. And, of course, Radowitz hates me.
The boy's golden head dropped suddenly against Sorell. "I say, can't I have some food, and go to bed?" Sorell took him in and looked after him like a mother, helped by the kind apple-faced rector, who had heard the castle news from other sources also, and was greatly moved.
As they approached the barge he saw that while Constance had Radowitz on her right, Sorell of St. Cyprian's stood on the other side of her. Ah, no doubt, that accounted for it. Sorell had been originally at "the House," was still a lecturer there, and very popular. He had probably invited the Hoopers with their niece. It was, of course, the best barge in the best position.
"That's what Oxford people think," she said defiantly. "I don't agree with them." "What do you mean by 'doing'?" Connie poked an imaginary fire. "Making myself happy" she said slowly, "and and a few other people!" Sorell laughed again. Then rising to take his leave, he stooped over her. "Make me happy by undoing that stroke of yours at Boar's Hill!"
Why don't they kick 'em over?" "I hope she will do nothing of the kind," said Sorell with energy. "The traditions may just save her." Otto thought over it. "You mean save her from doing something for pity that she wouldn't do if she had time to think?" Sorell assented. "Why should that fellow be any more likely now to make her happy " "Because he's lost his money and his father?
He believes his country will rise again, and it was his passion his most cherished hope to give his life and his gift to her. Poor lad!" The tears stood in Connie's eyes. "But he can still compose?" she urged piteously. Sorell shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, if he has the heart and the health. I never took much account before of his delicacy. One can see, to look at him, that he's not robust.
A few minutes more, and then, with the Eighth Prelude swaying and dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the music-room. The door was open, and they saw the persons inside. Otto and Sorell were walking up and down smoking cigarettes. The boy was radiant, transformed.
He, like Radowitz, was a poseur a wind-bag. That was what made the attraction between them. If she wished to learn Greek "Let me teach you!" And he had bent forward, with his most brilliant and imperious look, his hand upon her reins. But Constance, surprised and ruffled, had protested that Sorell had been her mother's dear friend, and was now her own.
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.
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