The room was large and square and low.  It was panelled in small squares of white wood.  The panels were old enough to be cracked here and there, and the paint was stained and yellow with time, where it was not knocked or worn off.  There was a small paned, leaded window which filled a large part of one side of the room, and its deep seat was an agreeable feature.  Sitting in it, one looked out over several red-walled gardens, and through breaks in the trees of the park to a fair beyond.  Bettina stood before this window for a few moments, and then took a seat in the embrasure, that she might gaze out and reflect at leisure.

Her genius, as has before been mentioned, was the genius for living, for being vital.  Many people merely exist, are kept alive by others, or continue to vegetate because the persistent action of normal functions will allow of their doing no less.  Bettina Vanderpoel had lived vividly, and in the midst of a self-created atmosphere of action from her first hour.  It was not possible for her to be one of the horde of mere spectators.  Wheresoever she moved there was some occult stirring of the mental, and even physical, air.  Her pulses beat too strongly, her blood ran too fast to allow of inaction of mind or body.  When, in passing through the village, she had seen the broken windows and the hanging palings of the cottages, it had been inevitable that, at once, she should, in thought, repair them, set them straight.  Disorder filled her with a sort of impatience which was akin to physical distress.  If she had been born a poor woman she would have worked hard for her living, and found an interest, almost an exhilaration, in her labour.  Such gifts as she had would have been applied to the tasks she undertook.  It had frequently given her pleasure to imagine herself earning her livelihood as a seamstress, a housemaid, a nurse.  She knew what she could have put into her service, and how she could have found it absorbing.  Imagination and initiative could make any service absorbing.  The actual truth was that if she had been a housemaid, the room she set in order would have taken a character under her touch; if she had been a seamstress, her work would have been swiftly done, her imagination would have invented for her combinations of form and colour; if she had been a nursemaid, the children under her care would never have been sufficiently bored to become tiresome or intractable, and they also would have gained character to which would have been added an undeniable vividness of outlook.  She could not have left them alone, so to speak.  In obeying the mere laws of her being, she would have stimulated them.  Unconsciously she had stimulated her fellow pupils at school; when she was his companion, her father had always felt himself stirred to interest and enterprise.

“You ought to have been a man, Betty,” he used to say to her sometimes.

But Betty had not agreed with him.