“Austin Dobson,” Nina supplied swiftly. But she owed that to Ursula: “A Gentlewoman of the Old School.”... Ursula had discovered it while she had a rave on Aunt Lavvy; and the latter had been delighted. “Listen, Aunt Lavvy--it’s just like you. I found it with a lot of mess and rubbish in my Reciter’s Treasury”--Miss Roberts painstakingly taught both Ursula and Lottie elocution. “Listen, Nina, doesn’t it fit? “For her, e’en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there, And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace, The soft white hand that stroked her lace, Or smoothed her wimples.” “And yet,” Aunt Lavvy confessed, when Ursula, with a rival’s triumphant glance at Nina, read aloud this strophe, “how often, when I was younger, I longed to be dashing, like your mother!” Perhaps she had sensitively divined Nina’s unspoken resentments about those exuberant dresses in bright cloth, untidily trimmed with braid, and the top part of the bodice filled in with silk that almost matched; perhaps she guessed that Florrie Maxwell’s children, her daughters anyhow, made mental comparisons ... longed for a more dove-coloured personality in their mother.... At all events, her remark was a secret kindness to Florrie.... “Dashing!” Ursula repeated, wide-eyed. “Is that what they’d have called Mother, then? Her own girl friends--and men? Dashing?” “Very dashing, my dear. You should have seen her enter a ball-room!” “Are any of us--dashing?” The word had a savour, and Ursula sniffed it up appreciatively. “Well--Nina, perhaps, more than the rest of you.” Nina, who liked being called “a sport,” was for once vexed with her beloved Aunt Lavvy for the selection.... “Dashing”--it sounded old-fashioned, like “The New Woman” and “bloomers.” And anyway, you didn’t want to be just only what your mother had been--especially if you didn’t admire her. It was in Aunt Lavvy’s room that this talk took place. Presently: “I’ve got to go,” said Ursula, abruptly ending Aunt Lavvy’s reminiscences which were told in a manner whimsical, yet tinged with gentle regret, in illustration of her own foolish shyness as a girl. “Well, go! You needn’t always talk about it for an hour first.”