“ And did he have brown eyes?”
“ Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion. He was never still.”
Lydia still resented Lensky. When she thought of him, she was always younger than he, she was always twenty, or twenty-five, and under his domination. He incorporated her in his ideas as if she were not a person herself, as if she were just his aide-de-camp, or part of his baggage, or one among his surgical appliances. She still resented it. And he was always only thirty: he had died when he was thirty-four. She did not feel sorry for him. He was older than she. Yet she still ached in the thought of those days.
“ Did you like my first grandfather best?” asked Ursula.
“ I liked them both,” said the grandmother.
And, thinking, she became again Lensky’s girl-bride. He wa
