Ursula was very far from being a woman yet; very far from being a child. She could be sullen--tomboyish--sedate--pert, without knowing yet which of these personalities was the fundamental herself. Actually, the fundamental herself was Ursula sedate, shyly impudent, deliciously clear-cut, her brows drawn low and straight over demurely amused eyes; her voice uttering with conscious gentleness some startling decision or idea. “I am the cat that--without defiance and without fuss--walks by itself.” That was the real Ursula, which would outlast the romp, the flapper and the stormy adolescent, but which was now only rarely visible through her inevitably tormented years of trying to imitate everybody she admired; and trying to grab and make permanent those glints and hints of splendour which shook pure lights from the leaves on late afternoons in May, or glowed suddenly in the lit wet hedges of October when, towards evening, the sun battled its way from under a day of rain. Life at the Laburnums was--well, not exactly dull; not a bit dull, in fact, but lacking in wayward glory. No action was ever performed that filled her with bursting gladness, amazement, pride, or a queer big sorrow. Every one was just rather ragged and incomplete, getting over the patchwork somehow, yes--but Ursula’s veneration was for completeness. She once thought Aunt Lavvy had achieved it in porcelain fashion. Hence her phase of Aunt-Lavvy-worship. She once thought Nina had achieved it, in her sporting well-groomed golden-boy fashion, hence her phase of Nina--worship. And now--oh, couldn’t they see what Hal had lost? What he had lost for ever if Aunt Lavvy kept to her threat of “telling”? He had been invulnerable, a broad-shouldered, careless, lordly creature. It was, she felt dimly, and then with sudden sureness, Hal’s one asset, and the one asset of ten thousand Hals, that they were the type of youth who were ever unconscious of what they did, because what they did was so naturally the right and decent thing. And now he was maimed--spoilt. His family knew, and that was why he came into dinner with such a poignantly defenceless feeling about him. His family knew, but they might easily forget in a little time, if the rest of the world could be kept in ignorance. Ursula’s simply-splendid Hal was menaced, but not yet actually destroyed. And she was aware that since she alone recognized the menace, she was--somehow--responsible. After some restless tossing, she fell asleep. [XI] THE LABURNUMS spent the next day in viciously proving how much too small it was for its occupants. It was Sunday, and the men were at home. All the morning and afternoon it rained. Everybody had slept badly.