The Encaenia went off magnificently.  Connie, sitting beside Mrs. Hooper in the semicircle of the Sheldonian Theatre, drew the eyes of the crowd of graduates as they surged into the arena, and tantalised the undergraduates in the gallery, above the semicircle, who were well aware that the “star” was there, but could not see her.  As the new doctors’ procession entered through the lane made for it by the bedells, as the whole assembly rose, and as the organ struck up, amid the clapping and shouting of the gods in the gallery, Connie and the grey-haired Ambassador, who was walking second in the red and yellow line, grinned openly at each other, while the ex-Viceroy in front, who had been agreeably flattered by the effect produced by his girl-cousin in the august circles of the day before, nodded and smiled at the young lady in the white plumes and pale mauve dress.

“Do you know my cousin, Lady Constance Bledlow?—­the girl in mauve there?” he said, complacently in the ear of the Public Orator, as they stood waiting till the mingled din from the organ and the undergraduates’ gallery overhead should subside sufficiently to allow that official to begin his arduous task of introducing the doctors-elect.

The Public Orator, in a panic lest one of the Latin puns in his forthcoming address should escape him, said hurriedly—­“Yes!”—­and then “No”—­being quite uncertain to which girl in mauve the great man referred, and far too nervous to find out.  The great man smiled, and looked up blandly at the shrieking gallery overhead, wondering—­as all persons in his position do wonder in each succeeding generation—­whether the undergraduates were allowed to make quite such an infernal noise when he was “up.”

Meanwhile, Constance herself was only conscious of one face and figure in the crowded theatre.  Falloden had borrowed a master’s gown, and as the general throng closed up behind the doctors’ procession, he took up a position in the rear, just in front of the great doors under the organ loft, which, as the day was very hot, remained unclosed.  His dark head and athlete’s figure, scarcely disguised by the ampler folds of the borrowed gown, showed in picturesque relief against the grey and sunlit background of the beautiful Divinity School, which could be seen through the doorway.  Constance knew that his eyes were on her; and she guessed that he was only conscious of her, as she at that moment was only conscious of him.  And again that tremor, that premonition of some coming attack upon her will which she half dreaded, and half desired, swept over her.  What was there in the grave and slightly frowning face that drew her through all repulsion?  She studied it.  Surely the brow and eyes were beautiful—­shaped for high thought, and generous feeling?  It was the disdainful sulky mouth, the haughty carriage of the head, that spoilt a noble aspect.  Yet she had seen the mouth quiver into softness; and those broad shoulders had once stood between her and danger—­possibly death.  Her heart trembled.  “What do you want of me?” it was asking—­helplessly—­of the distant man; “and can I—­dare I—­give it?”