Bettina took in the unpromising details without a quiver of the extravagant lashes.  These, indeed, and the eyes pertaining to them, seemed rather to sweep the fine roof, and a certain minstrel’s gallery and staircase, than which nothing could have been much finer, with the look of an appreciative admirer of architectural features and old oak.  She had not journeyed to Stornham Court with the intention of disturbing Rosy, or of being herself obviously disturbed.  She had come to observe situations and rearrange them with that intelligence of which unconsidered emotion or exclamation form no part.

“It is the first old English house I have seen,” she said, with a sigh of pleasure.  “I am so glad, Rosy—­I am so glad that it is yours.”

She put a hand on each of Rosy’s thin shoulders—­she felt sharply defined bones as she did so—­and bent to kiss her.  It was the natural affectionate expression of her feeling, but tears started to Rosy’s eyes, and the boy Ughtred, who had sat down in a window seat, turned red again, and shifted in his place.

“Oh, Betty!” was Rosy’s faint nervous exclamation, “you seem so beautiful and—­so—­so strange—­that you frighten me.”

Betty laughed with the softest possible cheerfulness, shaking her a little.

“I shall not seem strange long,” she said, “after I have stayed with you a few weeks, if you will let me stay with you.”

“Let you!  Let you!” in a sort of gasp.

Poor little Lady Anstruthers sank on to a settle and began to cry again.  It was plain that she always cried when things occurred.  Ughtred’s speech from his window seat testified at once to that.

“Don’t cry, mother,” he said.  “You know how we’ve talked that over together.  It’s her nerves,” he explained to Bettina.  “We know it only makes things worse, but she can’t stop it.”

Bettina sat on the settle, too.  She herself was not then aware of the wonderful feeling the poor little spare figure experienced, as her softly strong young arms curved about it.  She was only aware that she herself felt that this was a heart-breaking thing, and that she must not—­must not let it be seen how much she recognised its woefulness.  This was pretty, fair Rosy, who had never done a harm in her happy life—­this forlorn thing was her Rosy.

“Never mind,” she said, half laughing again.  “I rather want to cry myself, and I am stronger than she is.  I am immensely strong.”

“Yes!  Yes!” said Lady Anstruthers, wiping her eyes, and making a tremendous effort at self-respecting composure.  “You are strong.  I have grown so weak in—­well, in every way.  Betty, I’m afraid this is a poor welcome.  You see—­I’m afraid you’ll find it all so different from—­from New York.”

“I wanted to find it different,” said Betty.

“But—­but—­I mean—­you know——­” Lady Anstruthers turned helplessly to the boy.  Bettina was struck with the painful truth that she looked even silly as she turned to him.  “Ughtred—­tell her,” she ended, and hung her head.