Theodore was mortally afraid of this fine lady, all soft texture and vague perfume, like a rose. But he found conversation hardly easier with Ursula, in spite of the sullen admiration he unwillingly accorded her.
“Your mother will be glad to have you back,” said Ursula.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, fervently. “And I to go—back,” he added, blushing.
“You know, it was impossible,” Helena’s voice rang out again. “We are speaking of your uncle Mopius, Ursula. They have had to withdraw his candidature. He is a very good sort of man—oh, very good—but he is not what Freule Louisa calls ‘strong.’ Papa tells me it is quite impossible, though I’m sure I worked hard for him—didn’t I, Willie? Your uncle says it’s all your doing, Ursula. He was very rude about you to papa. I had to stop him, and remind him you were become my cousin by marriage.”
“Indeed,” replied Ursula.
“Would you like to hear what he said?”
“I cannot say I care.”
“Well, as we are quite among ourselves, perhaps it is better you should know. He said that your elevation had turned your head. You know, Ursula, he is rather, rather—pardon me the word—vulgar!”
She had spoken French. The servant, by the sideboard, rattled his plates.