as if she were set on a hill and could feel vaguely the whole world lying spread before her.
"What have you a month's leave from?" she asked.
"I'm in the Engineers—in the Army."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, glad.
"We're taking you away from your studies," said her Uncle Tom.
"Oh, no," she replied quickly.
Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable.
"She won't wait to be taken away," said her father. But that seemed clumsy. She wished he would leave her to say her own things.
"Don't you like study?" asked Skrebensky, turning to her, putting the question from his own case.
"I like some things," said Ursula. "I like Latin and French—and grammar."
He watched her, and all his being seemed attentive to her, then he shook his head.
"I don't," he said. "They say all the brains of the army are in the Engineers. I think that's why I joined them—to get the credit of other people's brains."
He said this quizzically and with chagrin. And she became alert to him. It interested her. Whether he had brains or not, he was interesting. His directness attracted her, his independent motion. She was aware of the movement of his life over against her.
"I don't think brains matter," she said.
"What does matter then?" came her Uncle Tom's intimate, caressing, half-jeering voice.
She turned to him.
"It matters whether people have courage or not," she said.
"Courage for what?" asked her uncle.
"For everything."
Tom Brangwen gave a sharp little laugh. The mother and father sat silent, with listening faces. Skrebensky waited. She was speaking for him.
"Everything's nothing," laughed her uncle.
She disliked him at that moment.
"She doesn't practise what she preaches," said her father, stirring in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "She has courage for mighty little."
But she would not answer. Skrebensky sat still, waiting. His face was irregular, almost ugly, flattish, with a rather
