"I don't know--about half-past nine."
There was a pause.
"I think it's wrong," said Ethel, lifting her head with
impatience. "You don't know him."
She spoke with some contempt.
"Yes, I do. He is half a Pole, and a Baron too. In England he
is equivalent to a Lord. My grandmother was his father's
friend."
But the two friends were hostile. It was as if Ursula
wanted to divide herself from her acquaintances, in
asserting her connection with Anton, as she now called him.
He came a good deal to Cossethay, because her mother was fond
of him. Anna Brangwen became something of a grande dame
with Skrebensky, very calm, taking things for granted.
"Aren't the children in bed?" cried Ursula petulantly, as she
came in with the young man.
"They will be in bed in half an hour," said the mother.
"There is no peace," cried Ursula.
"The children must live, Ursula," said her mother.
And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should she be
so insistent?
But then, as Ursula knew, he did not have the perpetual
tyranny of young children about him. He treated her mother with
great courtliness, to which Mrs. Brangwen returned an easy,
friendly hospitality. Something pleased the girl in her mother's
calm assumption of state. It seemed impossible to abate Mrs.
Brangwen's position. She could never be beneath anyone in public
relation. Between Brangwen and Skrebensky there was an
unbridgeable silence. Sometimes the two men made a slight
conversation, but there was no interchange. Ursula rejoiced to
see her father retreating into himself against the young
man.
She was proud of Skrebensky in the house. His lounging,
languorous indifference irritated her and yet cast a spell over
her. She knew it was the outcome of a spirit of
laissez-aller combined with profound young vitality. Yet
it irritated her deeply.
Notwithstanding, she was proud of him as he lounged in his
lambent fashion in her home, he was so attentive and courteous
to her mother and to herself all the time. It was wonderful to
have his awareness in the room. She felt rich and augmented by
it, as if she were the positive attraction and he the flow
towards her. And his courtesy and his agreement might be all her
mother's, but the lambent flicker of his body was for herself.
She held it.
She must ever prove her power.
"I meant to show you my little wood-carving," she said.
"I'm sure it's not worth showing, that," said her father.
"Would you like to see it?" she asked, leaning towards the
door.
And his body had risen from the chair, though his face seemed
to want to agree with her parents.
"It is in the shed," she said.
And he followed her out of the door, whatever his feelings
might be.