“He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill—do you think it was wrong?” “When?” “On Thursday night when he was seeing me home—but real kisses—real—. He is an officer in the army.” “What time was it?” asked the deliberate Ethel. “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 _laisser-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.