nk that was what he felt--that there was only a stranger."

"I was just in time," said Falloden slowly. "And I wonder--whether
anything matters, to the dying?"

There was a pause, after which he added, with sudden energy--

"I thought--at the inquest--he himself looked pretty bad."

"Otto Radowitz?" Constance covered her eyes with her hands a moment--a
gesture of pain. "Mr. Sorell doesn't know what to do for him. He has
been losing ground lately. The doctors say he ought to live in the
open-air. He and Mr. Sorell talk of a cottage near Oxford, where Mr.
Sorell can go often and see him. But he can't live alone."

As she spoke Falloden's attention was diverted. He had raised his head
and was looking across the lawn towards the garden entrance. There was
the sound of a clicking latch. Constance turned, and saw
Radowitz entering.

The young musician paused and wavered, at the sight of the two under the
lime. It seemed as though he would have taken to flight. But, instead,
he came on with hesitating step. He had taken off his hat, as he often
did when walking; and his red-gold hair _en brosse_ was as conspicuous
as ever. But otherwise what a change from the youth of three months
before! Falloden, now that the immediate pressure of his own tragedy
was relaxed, perceived the change even more sharply than he had done at
the inquest; perceived it, at first with horror, and then with a wild
sense of recoil and denial, as though some hovering Erinys advanced with
Radowitz over the leaf-strewn grass.

Radowitz grew paler still as he reached Connie. He gave Falloden a
short, embarrassed greeting, and then subsided into the chair that
Constance offered him. The thought crossed Falloden's mind--"Did she
arrange this?"

Her face gave little clue--though she could not restrain one quick,
hesitating glance at Falloden. She pressed tea on Radowitz, who accepted
it to please her, and then, schooled as she was in all the minor social
arts, she had soon succeeded in establishing a sort of small talk among
the three. Falloden, self-conscious, and on the rack, could not imagine
why he stayed. But this languid boy had ministered to his dying father!
And to what, and to whom, were the languor, the tragic physical change
due? He stayed--in purgatory--looking out for any chance to escape.

"Did you walk all the way?"

The note in Connie's voice was softly reproachful.

"Why, it's only three miles!" said Radowitz, as though defending
h