Betty did indeed desire to fall in love. In all the story books the
main interest of the heroine's career began with that event. Not that
she voiced the desire to herself. Only once she voiced it in her
prayers.

"Oh, God," she said, "do please let something happen!"

That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself,
even with her Creator.

Next morning she planned to go sketching; but no, there were three
more detestable books to be put into nasty little black cotton coats,
the drawing-room to be dusted--all the hateful china--the peas to be
shelled for dinner.

She shelled the peas in the garden. It was a beautiful green garden,
and lovers could have walked very happily down the lilac-bordered
paths.

"Oh, how sick I am of it all!" said Betty. She would not say, even to
herself, that what she hated was the frame without the picture.

As she carried in the peas she passed the open window of the study
where, among shelves of dull books and dusty pamphlets, her
step-father had as usual forgotten his sermon in a chain of references
to the Fathers. Betty saw his thin white hairs, his hard narrow face
and tight mouth, the hands yellow and claw-like that gripped the thin
vellum folio.