She ran through the names. Otto choked. He knew them all, and some of them were among the most ill.u.s.trious in French music.

But while Connie was speaking, the stream of sound in the distance sank into gentleness, and in the silence a small voice arose, navely, pastorally sweet, like the Shepherd's Song in "Tristan." Otto buried his face in his hands. It was the "Heynal," the watchman's horn-song from the towers of Panna Marya. Once given, a magician caught it, played with it, pursued it, juggled with it, through a series of variations till, finally, a grave and beautiful modulation led back to the n.o.ble dirge of the beginning.

"I know who wrote that!--who must have written it!" said Otto, looking up. He named a French name. "I worked with him at the Conservatoire for a year."

Constance nodded.

"He did it for you," she said, her eyes full of tears. "He said you were the best pupil he ever had."

The door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland's white head appeared, with Falloden and Sorell behind.

"Otto!" said Mrs. Mulholland, softly.

He understood that she called him, and he went with her in bewilderment, along the pa.s.sage to the studio.

Falloden came into the sitting-room and shut the door.

"Did he like it?" he asked, in a low voice, in which there was neither pleasure nor triumph.

Connie, who was still sitting on the stool by the fire with her face turned away, looked up.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she said in a kind of desperation, wringing her hands; "but why are some pleasures worse than pain--much worse?"

Falloden came up to her, and stood silently, his eyes on hers.

"You see"--she went on, dashing tears away--"it is not his work--his playing! It can't do anything--can it, for his poor starved self?"

Falloden said nothing. But she knew that he felt with her. Their scheme seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it.

Then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of Chopin, played surely by more than mortal fingers--like the rustling of summer trees, under a summer wind. And suddenly they heard Otto's laugh--a sound of delight.

Connie sprang up--her face transformed.

"Did you hear that? We have--we have--given him pleasure!"

"Yes--for an hour," said Falloden hoa.r.s.ely. Then he added--"The doctors say he ought to go south.".

"Of course he ought!" Connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind her, her eyes on the ground. "Can't Mr. Sorell take him?"

"He could take him out, but he couldn't stay. The college can't spare him. He feels his first duty is to the college?"

"And you?" She raised her eyes timidly.

"What good should I be alone?" he said, with difficulty. "I'm a pretty sort of a nurse!"

There was a pause. Connie trembled and flushed. Then she moved forward, both her little hands outstretched.

"Take me with you!" she murmured under her breath. But her eyes said more--far more.

The next moment she was in Falloden's arms, strained against his breast--everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just selfishness of pa.s.sion.

Then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering.

"I was a mean wretch to let you do that!" he said, with energy.

She eyed him.

"Why?"

"Because I have no right to let you give yourself to me--throw yourself away on me--just because we have been doing this thing together,--because you are sorry for Otto--and"--his voice dropped--"perhaps for me."

"Oh!" It was a cry of protest. Coming nearer she put her two hands lightly on his shoulders--.

"Do you think"--he saw her breath fluttering--"do you think I should let any one--any one--kiss me--like that! just because I was sorry for them--or for some one else?"

He stood motionless beneath her touch.

"You are sorry for me--you angel!--and you're sorry for Otto--and you want to make up to everybody--and make everybody happy--and--"

"And one can't!" said Connie quietly, her eyes bright with tears. "Don't I know that? I repeat"--her colour was very bright--"but perhaps you won't believe, that--that"--then she laughed--"_of my own free will_, I never kissed anybody before?"

"Constance!" He threw his strong arms round her again. But she slipped out of them.

"Am I believed?" The tone was peremptory.

Falloden stooped, lifted her hand and kissed it humbly.

"You know you ought to marry a duke!" he said, trying to laugh, but with a swelling throat.

"Thank you--I never saw a duke yet I wanted to marry."

"That's it. You've seen so little. I am a pauper, and you might marry anybody. It's taking an unfair advantage. Don't you see--what--"

"What my aunts will think?" asked Constance coolly. "Oh, yes, I've considered all that."

She walked away, and came back, a little pale and grave. She sat down on the arm of a chair and looked up at him.

"I see. You are as proud as ever."

That hurt him. His face changed.

"You can't really think that," he said, with difficulty.

"Yes, yes, you are!" she said, wildly, covering her eyes a moment with her hands. "It's just the same as it was in the spring--only different--I told you then--"

"That I was a bully and a cad!"

Her hands dropped sharply.