“Last night, for instance, I was in agony from twelve to three--in agony. I don’t know what I should have done without my vegetable electricity. I took it at three, and the pain vanished immediately.”
“Why didn’t you take it at once?” asked Ursula.
“Ursula, you have not the slightest comprehension of medicines. Fortunate child, it is your lack of experience. Medicines never act if taken at once.”
The Dominé had basely deserted his own fortress.
“Ursula, my dear,” said Miss Mopius, sitting up with quite unusual energy, “no wonder my health has suffered. Something very important has happened since you went away.”
“Really?” asked Ursula, wondering what the maid-of-all-work had broken.
“Yes, but it’s no use speaking of it to your father. Ursula, Otto van Helmont comes here every evening. Since you left, mind you. Now, I ask, what can that mean?”
“He had only four evenings before I left,” replied Ursula, with some spirit, “one of them was free, and he came.”
“_One_ doesn’t count. That was a formal call,” replied Miss Mopius, loftily. “I ask, what does it mean? He sits and talks and talks. Nominally to your father. Ursula, I have watched him; he never speaks to me.” She sank back in her chair and began to count on her lanky fingers, without taking further note of her companion. “He never speaks to me--one. He never looks at me--two. But he brought me a nosegay--three. He said it was from his mother--four.” She roused herself from her reverie. “Ursula, my child,” she asked, “why does he bring me a nosegay, and say it is from his mother?”
Miss Mopius scornfully shook her curls. “Does the Baroness send me roses in midsummer?” she inquired. “Dear girl, you are too young; I should have considered that. But there are moments in a woman’s existence when she craves for the sympathy of her sex. If only my dear elder sister were alive--she was so much my elder!--to help me now. Go, dear child, go; at some distant day your own turn will come, and then you will understand.”
“Yes, aunt,” said Ursula, gladly moving towards the door.
“Stay one instant,” cried the spinster. “Child, are you so eager to return to your diversions? He is good-looking, Ursula. I have watched him, as I said. His face is careworn and earnest; he is no mere beardless boy just dipping into life, but a man who has swum against the current. He has experience and judgment, and he _knows_. Ursula, I would not marry a beardless boy.”