the ablest essays sent in, however, was a paper by Falloden on the
"Sentimentalisms of Democracy"--in which a reasoned and fierce contempt
for the popular voice, and a brilliant glorification of war and of a
military aristocracy, made very lively reading.

On the later occasion, when Sorell and Constance met during the week, he
found Radowitz in the Hoopers' drawing-room. Sorell had gone in after
dinner to consult with Ewen Hooper, one of his fellow examiners, over
some doubtful papers, and their business done, the two men allowed
themselves an interval of talk and music with the ladies before
beginning work again till the small hours.

Constance, in diaphanous black, was at the piano, trying to recall, for
Radowitz's benefit, some of the Italian folk-songs that had delighted
the river-party. The room was full of a soft mingled light from the
still uncurtained windows and the lamp which had been just brought in.
It seemed to be specially concentrated on the hair, "golden like ripe
corn," of the young musician, and on Connie's white neck and arms.
Radowitz lay back in a low chair gazing at her with all his eyes.

On the further side of the room Nora was reading, Mrs. Hooper was busy
with the newspaper, and Alice and Herbert Pryce were talking with the
air of people who are, rather uncomfortably, making up a quarrel.

Sorell spent his half-hour mostly in conversation with Mrs. Hooper and
Nora, while his inner mind wondered about the others. 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. Ah, you didn't notice--but you should. He is like
the Hermes--only grown older, and with a soul. But there is no Greek
sculptor who could have done him justice. It would have wanted a
Praxiteles; but with the mind of Euripides!"

The boy's passionate enthusiasm pleased her. But she could think of
nothing less conventional in reply than to ask if Sorell were popular
in college.

"Oh, they like him well enough. They know what trouble he takes for
them, and there's nobody dares cheek him. But they don't understand him.
He's too shy. Wasn't it good fortune for me that he happens to be
my friend?"

And