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Updated: May 12, 2025
A tall figure became visible at the end of the street. Connie shut up her writing and ran upstairs to put on her things. When she came down, she found Sorell waiting for her with a furrowed brow. "How is he?" She approached him anxiously. Sorell's look changed and cleared. Had she put on her white dress, had she made herself a vision of freshness and charm, for the poor boy's sake?
Her tone, in repeating the same words she had used to Sorell, fell into the same pleading note. He shook his head, almost with irritation. "It was out of the instrument out of improvisation that all my composing grew.
He thought so; and his black eyes kindled. "Better in some ways. He is hanging on your coming. But these are awfully bad times for the nurses for all of us." "I may take him some roses?" she said humbly, pointing to a basket she had brought in with her. Sorell smiled assent and took it from her.
Her silence and pallor had gone; she showed a kind of determined vivacity. Sorell, with his strange gift of sympathy, found himself admiring her "pluck." When the party returned to the boat-house in the evening, Sorell, whose boat had arrived first at the landing-stage, helped Constance to land.
And suddenly, though rather shyly, she broke into a popular canzone of the Garibaldian time, describing the day of Villa Gloria; the march of the morning, the wild hopes, the fanfaronade; and in the evening, a girl hiding a wounded lover and weeping both for him and "Italia" undone. The sweet low sounds floated along the river. "Delicious!" said Sorell, holding his oar suspended to listen.
And Connie did it, broadly speaking, during the week of Falloden's schools. Sorell himself was busy every day and all day as one of the Greats examiners. He scarcely saw her for more than two half-hours during a hideously strenuous week, through which he sat immersed in the logic and philosophy papers of the disappearing generation of Honour men.
He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, his handsome pensive face, with its intensely human eyes, bent towards Nora, who was pouring out to him some grievances of the "home-students," to which he was courteously giving a jaded man's attention. When he left the room Radowitz broke out "Isn't he like a god?" Connie opened astonished eyes. "Who?" "My tutor Mr. Sorell.
Alice says he scarcely said a word, but you could feel he was in a towering rage." "Poor Falloden!" said Sorell. Nora's eyes twinkled. "Yes, but so good for him! I'm sure he's always throwing over other people. Now he knows "'Golden lads and lasses must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust." "Vandal!" cried Sorell "to twist such a verse!"
Sorell, in a master's gown, stood talking with a man, also in a master's gown, but much older than himself, a man with a singular head both flat and wide scanty reddish hair, touched with grey, a massive forehead, pale blue eyes, and a long pointed chin.
Sorell's oar dropped into the water with a splash. At Marston Ferry, there was a general disembarking, a ramble along the river bank and tea under a group of elms beside a broad reach of the stream. Sorell noticed, that in spite of the regrouping of the two boat loads, as they mingled in the walk, Herbert Pryce never left Connie's side.
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