'Aunt Philippa means to be kind,' I said, struggling to repress my
tears,--tears always troubled Uncle Max: 'she is kind in her way, and so
is Sara. I have every comfort, every luxury; they want me to be gay and
enjoy myself, to lead their life; but it only makes me miserable; they do
not understand me; they see I do not think with them, and then they laugh
at me and call me morbid. No one really wants me but poor Jill: I am so
fond of Jill.'

'Why cannot you lead their life, Ursula?'

'Because it is not life at all,' was my resolute answer: 'to me it is the
most wearisome existence possible. Listen to me, Uncle Max. Do you think
I could possibly spend my days as Sara does,--writing a few notes, doing
a little fancy-work, shopping and paying visits, and dancing half the
night? Do you think you could transform such a poor little Cinderella
into a fairy princess, like Sara or Lesbia? No; the drudgery of such a
life would kill me with _ennui_ and discontent.'

'It is not the life I would choose for you, certainly,' he said, pulling
his beard in some perplexity: 'it is far too worldly to suit my taste; if
Charlie had lived you would have made your home with him. He often talked
to me about that, poor fellow. I thought a year or two at Hyde Park Gate
would do you no harm, and might be wholesome training; but it has proved
a failure, I see that.'

'They would be happier without me,' I went on, more quietly, for he was
evidently coming round to my view of the case. 'Aunt Philippa does not
mean to be unkind, but she often lets me see that I am in the way, that
she is not proud of me. She would have taken more interest in me if I had
been handsome, like Sara; but a plain, dowdy niece is not to her taste.