Over the trees and over the walls rose the spires and towers of a wondrous city; while on the grass, or through the winding paths disappearing into bosky distances, flickered white dresses, and the slender forms of young men and maidens.

A murmur of voices rose and fell on the warm night air; the sound of singing--the thin sweetness of boyish notes--came from the hall, whose decorated windows, brightly lit, shone out over the garden.
"It's Oxford--and it's Brahms," said Constance.

"I seem to have known it all before in music: the trees--the lawn--the figures--appearing and disappearing--the distant singing--" She spoke in a low, dreamy tone, her chin propped on her hand.

Nothing could have been, apparently, quieter or more self-governed than her attitude.

But her inner mind was full of tumult; resentful memory; uneasy joy; and a tremulous fear, both of herself and of the man at her feet.