dra, Princess of Wales, was one
of her models. This lady was proud and royal, and stepped
indifferently over all small, mean desires: so thought Anna, in
her heart. And the girl did up her hair high under a little
slanting hat, her skirts were fashionably bunched up, she wore
an elegant, skin-fitting coat.

Her father was delighted. Anna was very proud in her bearing,
too naturally indifferent to smaller bonds to satisfy Ilkeston,
which would have liked to put her down. But Brangwen was having
no such thing. If she chose to be royal, royal she should be. He
stood like a rock between her and the world.

After the fashion of his family, he grew stout and handsome.
His blue eyes were full of light, twinkling and sensitive, his
manner was deliberate, but hearty, warm. His capacity for living
his own life without attention from his neighbours made them
respect him. They would run to do anything for him. He did not
consider them, but was open-handed towards them, so they made
profit of their willingness. He liked people, so long as they
remained in the background.

Mrs. Brangwen went on in her own way, following her own
devices. She had her husband, her two sons and Anna. These
staked out and marked her horizon. The other people were
outsiders. Inside her own world, her life passed along like a
dream for her, it lapsed, and she lived within its lapse, active
and always pleased, intent. She scarcely noticed the outer
things at all. What was outside was outside, non-existent. She
did not mind if the boys fought, so long as it was out of her
presence. But if they fought when she was by, she was angry, and
they were afraid of her. She did not care if they broke a window
of a railway carriage or sold their watches to have a revel at
the Goose Fair. Brangwen was perhaps angry over these things. To
the mother they were insignificant. It was odd little things
that offended her. She was furious if the boys hung around the
slaughter-house, she was displeased when the school reports were
bad. It did not matter how many sins her boys were accused of,
so long as they were not stupid, or inferior. If they seemed to
brook insult, she hated them. And it was only a certain
gaucherie, a gawkiness on Anna's part that irritated her
against the girl. Certain forms of clumsiness, grossness, made
the mother's eyes glow with curious rage. Otherwise she was
pleased, indifferent.

Pursuing her splendid-lady ideal, Anna became a lofty
demoisel