“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 hers.
“I don’t think brains matter,” she said.
“What does matter then?” came her Uncle Tom’s intimate, caressing, half-jeering voice.