s isolation.

So Ursula thought him wonderful, he was so finely
constituted, and so distinct, self-contained, self-supporting.
This, she said to herself, was a gentleman, he had a nature like
fate, the nature of an aristocrat.

She laid hold of him at once for her dreams. Here was one
such as those Sons of God who saw the daughters of men, that
they were fair. He was no son of Adam. Adam was servile. Had not
Adam been driven cringing out of his native place, had not the
human race been a beggar ever since, seeking its own being? But
Anton Skrebensky could not beg. He was in possession of himself,
of that, and no more. Other people could not really give him
anything nor take anything from him. His soul stood alone.

She knew that her mother and father acknowledged him. The
house was changed. There had been a visit paid to the house.
Once three angels stood in Abraham's doorway, and greeted him,
and stayed and ate with him, leaving his household enriched for
ever when they went.

The next day she went down to the Marsh according to
invitation. The two men were not come home. Then, looking
through the window, she saw the dogcart drive up, and Skrebensky
leapt down. She saw him draw himself together, jump, laugh to
her uncle, who was driving, then come towards her to the house.
He was so spontaneous and revealed in his movements. He was
isolated within his own clear, fine atmosphere, and as still as
if fated.

His resting in his own fate gave him an appearance of
indolence, almost of languor: he made no exuberant movement.
When he sat down, he seemed to go loose, languid.

"We are a little late," he said.

"Where have you been?"

"We went to Derby to see a friend of my father's."

"Who?"

It was an adventure to her to put direct questions and get
plain answers. She knew she might do it with this man.

"Why, he is a clergyman too--he is my guardian--one
of them."

Ursula knew that Skrebensky was an orphan.

"Where is really your home now?" she asked.

"My home?--I wonder. I am very fond of my
colonel--Colonel Hepburn: then there are my aunts: but my
real home, I suppose, is the army."

"Do you like being on your own?"

His clear, greenish-grey eyes rested on her a moment, and, as
he considered, he did not see her.

"I suppose so," he said. "You see my father--well, he
was never acclimatized here. He wanted--I don't know what
he wanted--but it was a strain. And my mother--I
always knew she was too