“I like you best in that dress,” he said, standing with his head slightly on one side, and appreciating her in a perceiving, critical fashion. She was thrilled with a new life. For the first time she was in love with a vision of herself: she saw as it were a fine little reflection of herself in his eyes. And she must act up to this: she must be beautiful. Her thoughts turned swiftly to clothes, her passion was to make a beautiful appearance. Her family looked on in amazement at the sudden transformation of Ursula. She became elegant, really elegant, in figured cotton frocks she made for herself, and hats she bent to her fancy. An inspiration was upon her. He sat with a sort of languor in her grandmother’s rocking chair, rocking slowly, languidly, backward and forward, as Ursula talked to him. “You are not poor, are you?” she said. “Poor in money? I have about a hundred and fifty a year of my own—so I am poor or rich, as you like. I am poor enough, in fact.” “But you will earn money?” “I shall have my pay—I have my pay now. I’ve got my commission. That is another hundred and fifty.” “You will have more, though?” “I shan’t have more than £ 200 a year for ten years to come. I shall always be poor, if I have to live on my pay.” “Do you mind it?” “Being poor? Not now—not very much. I may later. People—the officers, are good to me. Colonel Hepburn has a sort of fancy for me—he is a rich man, I suppose.” A chill went over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in some way? “Is Colonel Hepburn married?” “Yes—with two daughters.” But she was too proud at once to care whether Colonel Hepburn’s daughter wanted to marry him or not. There came a silence. Gudrun entered, and Skrebensky still rocked languidly on the chair. “You look very lazy,” said Gudrun. “I am lazy,” he answered. “You look really floppy,” she said. “I am floppy,” he answered. “Can’t you stop?” asked Gudrun. “No—it’s the _perpetuum mobile.”_ “You look as if you hadn’t a bone in your body.” “That’s how I like to feel.” “I don’t admire your taste.” “That’s my misfortune.” And he rocked on. Gudrun seated herself behind him, and as he rocked back, she caught his hair between her finger and thumb, so that it tugged him as he swung forward again. He took no notice. There was only the sound of the rockers on the floor. In silence, like a crab, Gudrun caught a strand of his hair each time he rocked back. Ursula flushed, and sat in some pain. She saw the irritation gathering on his brow. At last he leapt up, suddenly, like a steel spring going off, and stood on the hearthrug. “Damn it, _why_ can’t I rock?” he asked petulantly, fiercely. Ursula loved him for his sudden, steel-like start out of the languor. He stood on the hearthrug fuming, his eyes gleaming with anger. Gudrun laughed in her deep, mellow fashion. “Men don’t rock themselves,” she said. “Girls don’t pull men’s hair,” he said. Gudrun laughed again.