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Updated: June 9, 2025
I was saying that when one friend disappoints another bitterly! there is such a thing as making up!" There were beautiful notes in Falloden's deep voice, when he chose to employ them. He employed them now, and the old thrill of something that was at once delight and fear ran through Constance. But she looked him in the face, apparently quite unmoved. "Now it is you who are piling it on!
He was a round-faced and broad-shouldered person, with one of the unreadable faces developed by the life of a prominent solicitor, in contact with all sorts of clients and many varieties of business; and Falloden's sensitive pride had soon detected in his manner certain shades of expression to which the heir of Flood Castle was not accustomed. "I am sorry to hear Sir Arthur is not well." Mr.
That night after Sir Arthur's death she had looked tremblingly into the boy's very soul, had perceived his wondering sense of a special message to him through what had happened, from a God who suffered and forgives. Yes, she had tried to make peace. And she guessed the tears blinding her as she walked at the true meaning of Falloden's sudden impulse, and Otto's consent.
Connie, sitting hunched on the music-stool, her chin on her hand, was thinking of Falloden's outburst, and her own rebuff in Lathom Woods. The boy shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Connie with his brilliant eyes, and she seemed to see that he was on the point of confiding in her, of complaining of his treatment, and then proudly checked himself. "Oh, I like it well enough," he said carelessly.
Having made up the fire, he brought in a lamp himself; he drew the curtains, then undrew them again, apparently that he might examine a stretch of the Oxford road just visible through the growing dark; or he wandered in and out of the room, his hands in his pockets whistling. Otto watched him with a vague annoyance. He himself was horribly tired, and Falloden's restlessness got on his nerves.
They spoke again through the beautiful thwarted gift of this boy of twenty, through his foreboding of early death, and through that instinctive exercise of his creative gift, which showed itself not in music alone, but in the shaping of two lives Falloden's and Connie's. And Constance too was living and learning, with the intensity that comes of love and pity and compunction.
Sorell says everybody likes him in college except Mr. Falloden's horrid set, who think themselves the lords of creation. They say that Otto Radowitz made such an amusing speech last week in the college debating society attacking 'the bloods. Of course they didn't hear it, because they have their own club, and turn up their nose at the college society.
He thought with disgust of the scenes of the Marmion ball, of the reckless way in which Constance had encouraged Falloden's pursuit of her, of the talk of Oxford. His work with the Greats' papers had kept him away from the Magdalen ball, and he had heard nothing of it. No doubt that foolish child had behaved in the same way there. He was thankful he had not been there to see.
Her pleasure in it, and the childish airs she gave herself in regard to it, touched and amused Sorell, with whom through the Greek lessons she had become a great favourite. As they parted at the doorway leading to the Bodleian, she said with a mischievous look "Did you know Mr. Falloden's party is off?"
For him the quality of behaviour like Falloden's towards Otto Radowitz was beyond argument. The tyrannical temper in things great or small, and quite independent of results, represented, for him, the worst treason that man can offer to man. In this case it had ended in hideous catastrophe to an innocent and delightful being, whom he loved.
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