the one shimmering veil of blue. The air was fresh and
life-giving. Constance felt herself in love with life and the wide
Oxford scene. The physical exercise delighted her, and the breathless
sense of adventure.

But it was disagreeable to reflect, as she must do occasionally, that
the sphinx-like groom knew perfectly well that she was going to the
Lathom Woods, that he had the key of the nearest gate in his pocket,
that he would be a witness of her meeting with Falloden, whatever they
did with him afterwards, and that Falloden had in all probability paid
him largely to hold his tongue. All that side of it was
odious--degrading. But the thought of the green rides, and the man
waiting for her, set all the blood in her wild veins dancing. Yet there
was little or nothing in her feeling of a girl's yearning for a lover.
She wanted to see Falloden--to talk with him and dispute with him. She
could not be content for long without seeing him. He excited
her--provoked her--haunted her. And to feel her power over him was
delightful, if it had not been spoilt by a kind of recurrent fear--a
panic fear of his power over her.

What did she know of him after all? She was quite aware that her
friends, the Kings, had made some enquiries at Cannes before allowing
her to see so much of him as she had done during his stay with the rich
and hospitable Jaroslavs. She believed Colonel King had not liked him
personally. But Douglas Falloden belonged to one of the oldest English
families, settled on large estates in Yorkshire, with distinguished
records in all the great services; he was heir presumptive to a
marquisate, so long as his uncle, Lord Dagnall, now past seventy, did
not take it into his head to marry; and there was his brilliant career
at Oxford, his good looks and all the rest of it. Constance had a strong
dash of the worldling in her mixed character. She had been brought up
with Italian girl friends of the noble class, in whom the practical
instincts of a practical race were closely interwoven with what the
Englishman thinks of as Italian "romance" or "passion." She had
discussed dowries and settlements since she was fifteen; and took the
current values of wealth and birth for granted. She was quite aware of
her own advantages, and was not at all minded to throw them away. A
brilliant marriage was, perhaps, at the back of her mind, as it is at
the back of the minds of so many beautiful creatures who look and
breathe poetry, while