yet unstirred. She was rather unusually tall, and her body had the
suppleness of a young bamboo. The deep corners of her red mouth curled
generously, and the chin, melting into the fine line of the lovely
throat, was at once strong and soft and lovely. She was a creature of
harmony, warm richness of colour, and brilliantly alluring life.

When her school days were over she returned to New York and gave
herself into her mother's hands. Her mother's kindness of heart and
sweet-tempered lovingness were touching things to Bettina. In the midst
of her millions Mrs. Vanderpoel was wholly unworldly. Bettina knew that
she felt a perpetual homesickness when she allowed herself to think of
the daughter who seemed lost to her, and the girl's realisation of this
caused her to wish to be especially affectionate and amenable. She was
glad that she was tall and beautiful, not merely because such physical
gifts added to the colour and agreeableness of life, but because
hers gave comfort and happiness to her mother. To Mrs. Vanderpoel, to
introduce to the world the loveliest debutante of many years was to be
launched into a new future. To concern one's self about her exquisite
wardrobe was to have an enlivening occupation. To see her surrounded,
to watch eyes as they followed her, to hear her praised, was to feel
something of the happiness she had known in those younger days when New
York had been less advanced in its news and methods, and slim little
blonde Rosalie had come out in white tulle and waltzed like a fairy with
a hundred partners.

"I wonder what Rosy looks like now," the poor woman said involuntarily
one day. Bettina was not a fairy. When her mother uttered her
exclamation Bettina was on the point of going out, and as she stood near
her, wrapped in splendid furs, she had the air of a Russian princess.