But there were unions less satisfactory, and Bettina had opportunities to reflect upon these also.  The English and Continental papers did not give enthusiastic, detailed descriptions of the marriages New York journals dwelt upon with such delight.  They were passed over with a paragraph.  When Betty heard them spoken of in France, Germany or Italy, she observed that they were not, as a rule, spoken of respectfully.  It seemed to her that the bridegrooms were, in conversation, treated by their equals with scant respect.  It appeared that there had always been some extremely practical reason for the passion which had led them to the altar.  One generally gathered that they or their estates were very much out at elbow, and frequently their characters were not considered admirable by their relatives and acquaintances.  Some had been rather cold shouldered in certain capitals on account of embarrassing little, or big, stories.  Some had spent their patrimonies in riotous living.  Those who had merely begun by coming into impoverished estates, and had later attenuated their resources by comparatively decent follies, were of the more desirable order.  By the time she was nineteen, Bettina had felt the blood surge in her veins more than once when she heard some comments on alliances over which she had seen her compatriots glow with affectionate delight.

“It was time Ludlow married some girl with money,” she heard said of one such union.  “He had been playing the fool ever since he came into the estate.  Horses and a lot of stupid women.  He had come some awful croppers during the last ten years.  Good-enough looking girl, they tell me—­the American he has married—­tremendous lot of money.  Couldn’t have picked it up on this side.  English young women of fortune are not looking for that kind of thing.  Poor old Billy wasn’t good enough.”

Bettina told the story to her father when they next met.  She had grown into a tall young creature by this time.  Her low, full voice was like a bell and was capable of ringing forth some fine, mellow tones of irony.

“And in America we are pleased,” she said, “and flatter ourselves that we are receiving the proper tribute of adoration of our American wit and beauty.  We plume ourselves on our conquests.”

“No, Betty,” said her father, and his reflective deliberation had meaning.  “There are a lot of us who don’t plume ourselves particularly in these days.  We are not as innocent as we were when this sort of thing began.  We are not as innocent as we were when Rosy was married.”  And he sighed and rubbed his forehead with the handle of his pen.  “Not as innocent as we were when Rosy was married,” he repeated.

Bettina went to him and slid her fine young arm round his neck.  It was a long, slim, round arm with a wonderful power to caress in its curves.  She kissed Vanderpoel’s lined cheek.

“Have you had time to think much about Rosy?” she said.