. Robertson were in
it--and there were some other gentlemen besides. There's been a deal of
ragging in this college lately, sir. I do think, sir, as the fellows
should stop it."

Sorell agreed, and went off to the surgery, thinking furiously. Suppose
the boy's hand--and his fine talent--had been permanently injured by
that arrogant bully, Falloden, and his set! And Constance Bledlow had
been entangling herself with him--in spite of what anybody could say! 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. But he vowed to himself that he would find out the facts
of the attack on Radowitz, and that she should know them.

Yet the whole thing was very surprising. He had seen on various
occasions that Falloden was jealous of Connie's liking for Radowitz, of
the boy's homage, and of Connie's admiration for his musical gift. But
after the Marmion night, and the triumph she had so unwisely given the
fellow--to behave in this abominable way! There couldn't be a spark of
decent feeling in his composition.

* * * * *

Radowitz lay still--thinking always of Falloden, and Lady Constance.

Another knock at his door--very timid and hesitating. Radowitz said
"Come in."

The door opened partially, and a curly head was thrust in. Another head
appeared behind it.

"May we come in?" said a muffled voice. "It's Meyrick--and Robertson."

"I don't care if you do," said Radowitz coldly. "What do you want?"

The two men came in, stepping softly. One was fair and broad-shouldered.
The other exceedingly dark and broad-shouldered. Each was a splendid
specimen of the university athlete. And two more sheepish and hang-dog
individuals it would have been difficult to find.

"We've come to apologise," said Meyrick, standing by the bed, his hands
in his pockets, looking down on Radowitz. "We didn't mean to hurt you of
course, and we're awfully sorry--aren't we, Robertson?"

Robertson, sheltering behind Meyrick, murmured a deep-voiced assent.

"If we hadn't been beastly drunk we should never have done it," said
Meyrick; "but that's no excuse. How are you? What does Fanning say?"

They bo