Must you?" asked the child, noticing her grandmother's ivory coloured hand with blue veins, above the tray.
"If I had two husbands, child."
Ursula pondered a moment.
"Then you must wear both rings together?"
"Yes."
"Which was my grandfather's ring?"
The woman hesitated.
"This grandfather whom you knew? This was his ring, the red one. The yellow one was your other grandfather's whom you never knew."
Ursula looked interestedly at the two rings on the proffered finger.
"Where did he buy it you?" she asked.
"This one? In Warsaw, I think."
"You didn't know my own grandfather then?"
"Not this grandfather."
Ursula pondered this fascinating intelligence.
"Did he have white whiskers, as well?"
"No, his beard was dark. You have his brows, I think."
Ursula ceased and became self-conscious. She at once identified herself with her Polish grandfather.
"And did he have brown eyes?"
"Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion. He was never still."
Lydia still resented Lensky. When she thought of him, she was always younger than he, she was always twenty, or twenty-five, and under his domination. He incorporated her in his ideas as if she were not a person herself, as if she were just his aide-de-camp, or part of his baggage, or one among his surgical appliances. She still resented it. And he was always only thirty: he had died when he was thirty-four. She did not feel sorry for him. He was older than she. Yet she still ached in the thought of those days.
"Did you like my first grandfather best?" asked Ursula.
"I liked them both," said the grandmother.
And, thinking, she became again Lensky's girl-bride. He was of good family, of better family even than her own, for she was half German. She was a young girl in a house of insecure fortune. And he, an intellectual, a clever surgeon and physician, had loved her. How she had looked up to him! She remembered her first transports when he talked to her, the important young man with the severe black beard.
