“I remember you,” the young man’s voice was saying. “I remember you from the first time I saw you, because of your dark eyes and fair face.” Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased. “You were a curly-headed little lad,” she said. “Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls.” And a laugh ran to silence. “You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember,” said her father. “Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used to ask people to stay the night. I believe it was rather trying for my mother.” There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go. At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The girl hung in the doorway, seized with a moment’s fierce confusion. She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an attractive gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing how to carry her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind, her yellow-brown eyes shone without direction. Behind her, in the parlour, was the soft light of a lamp upon open books. A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of intimate possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident his own complete detachment. But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear greyish eyes that waited until they were called upon, before they took expression. Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her, and she broke into a confused, rather beautiful laugh as she gave him her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His hand closed over hers very close, very near, he bowed, and his eyes were watching her with some attention. She felt proud—her spirit leapt to life. “You don’t know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula,” came her Uncle Tom’s intimate voice. She lifted her face with an impulsive flash to the stranger, as if to declare a knowledge, laughing her palpitating, excited laugh. His eyes became confused with roused lights, his detached attention changed to a readiness for her. He was a young man of twenty-one, with a slender figure and soft brown hair brushed up on the German fashion straight from his brow. “Are you staying long?” she asked. “I’ve got a month’s leave,” he said, glancing at Tom Brangwen. “But I’ve various places I must go to—put in some time here and there.” He brought her a strong sense of the outer world. It was as if she were set on a hill and could feel vaguely the whole world lying spread before her. “What have you a month’s leave from?” she asked. “I’m in the Engineers—in the Army.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, glad. “We’re taking _you_ away from your studies,” said her Uncle Tom. “Oh, no,” she replied quickly. Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable. “She won’t wait to be taken away,” said her father. But that seemed clumsy. She wished he would leave her to say her own things. “Don’t you like study?” asked Skrebensky, turning to her, putting the question from his own case.