Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased.
“You were a curly-headed little lad,” she said.
“Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls.”
And a laugh ran to silence.
“You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember,” said her father.
“Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used to ask people to stay the night. I believe it was rather trying for my mother.”
There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go.
At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The girl hung in the doorway, seized with a moment’s fierce confusion. She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an attractive gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing how to carry her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind, her yellow-brown eyes shone without direction. Behind her, in the parlour, was the soft light of a lamp upon open books.
A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of intimate possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident his own complete detachment.
But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear greyish eyes that waited until they were called upon, before they took expression.