“It is England we love, we Americans,” she had said to her father.  “What could be more natural?  We belong to it—­it belongs to us.  I could never be convinced that the old tie of blood does not count.  All nationalities have come to us since we became a nation, but most of us in the beginning came from England.  We are touching about it, too.  We trifle with France and labour with Germany, we sentimentalise over Italy and ecstacise over Spain—­but England we love.  How it moves us when we go to it, how we gush if we are simple and effusive, how we are stirred imaginatively if we are of the perceptive class.  I have heard the commonest little half-educated woman say the prettiest, clumsy, emotional things about what she has seen there.  A New England schoolma’am, who has made a Cook’s tour, will almost have tears in her voice as she wanders on with her commonplaces about hawthorn hedges and thatched cottages and white or red farms.  Why are we not unconsciously pathetic about German cottages and Italian villas?  Because we have not, in centuries past, had the habit of being born in them.  It is only an English cottage and an English lane, whether white with hawthorn blossoms or bare with winter, that wakes in us that little yearning, grovelling tenderness that is so sweet.  It is only nature calling us home.”

Mrs. Worthington came in during the course of the morning to find her standing before her window looking out at the Thames, the Embankment, the hansom cabs themselves, with an absolutely serious absorption.  This changed to a smile as she turned to greet her.

“I am delighted,” she said.  “I could scarcely tell you how much.  The impression is all new and I am excited a little by everything.  I am so intensely glad that I have saved it so long and that I have known it only as part of literature.  I am even charmed that it rains, and that the cabmen’s mackintoshes are shining and wet.”  She drew forward a chair, and Mrs. Worthington sat down, looking at her with involuntary admiration.

“You look as if you were delighted,” she said.  “Your eyes—­you have amazing eyes, Betty!  I am trying to picture to myself what Lady Anstruthers will feel when she sees you.  What were you like when she married?”

Bettina sat down, smiling and looking, indeed, quite incredibly lovely.  She was capable of a warmth and a sweetness which were as embracing as other qualities she possessed were powerful.

“I was eight years old,” she said.  “I was a rude little girl, with long legs and a high, determined voice.  I know I was rude.  I remember answering back.”

“I seem to have heard that you did not like your brother-in-law, and that you were opposed to the marriage.”

“Imagine the undisciplined audacity of a child of eight ‘opposing’ the marriage of her grown-up sister.  I was quite capable of it.  You see in those days we had not been trained at all (one had only been allowed tremendous liberty), and interfered conversationally with one’s elders and betters at any moment.  I was an American little girl, and American little girls were really—­they really were!” with a laugh, whose musical sound was after all wholly non-committal.