“You say that,” she once replied to him, “because you see I am inclined to do things, to change them, if they need changing.  Well, one is either born like that, or one is not.  Sometimes I think that perhaps the people who must act are of a distinct race.  A kind of vigorous restlessness drives them.  I remember that when I was a child I could not see a pin lying upon the ground without picking it up, or pass a drawer which needed closing, without giving it a push.  But there has always been as much for women to do as for men.”

There was much to be done here of one sort of thing and another.  That was certain.  As she gazed through the small panes of her large windows, she found herself overlooking part of a wilderness of garden, which revealed itself through an arch in an overgrown laurel hedge.  She had glimpses of unkempt grass paths and unclipped topiary work which had lost its original form.  Among a tangle of weeds rose the heads of clumps of daffodils, stirred by a passing wind of spring.  In the park beyond a cuckoo was calling.

She was conscious both of the forlorn beauty and significance of the neglected garden, and of the clear quaintness of the cuckoo call, as she thought of other things.

“Her spirit and her health are broken,” was her summing up.  “Her prettiness has faded to a rag.  She is as nervous as an ill-treated child.  She has lost her wits.  I do not know where to begin with her.  I must let her tell me things as gradually as she chooses.  Until I see Nigel I shall not know what his method with her has been.  She looks as if she had ceased to care for things, even for herself.  What shall I write to mother?”

She knew what she should write to her father.  With him she could be explicit.  She could record what she had found and what it suggested to her.  She could also make clear her reason for hesitance and deliberation.  His discretion and affection would comprehend the thing which she herself felt and which affection not combined with discretion might not take in.  He would understand, when she told him that one of the first things which had struck her, had been that Rosy herself, her helplessness and timidity, might, for a period at least, form obstacles in their path of action.  He not only loved Rosy, but realised how slight a sweet thing she had always been, and he would know how far a slight creature’s gentleness might be overpowered and beaten down.

There was so much that her mother must be spared, there was indeed so little that it would be wise to tell her, that Bettina sat gently rubbing her forehead as she thought of it.  The truth was that she must tell her nothing, until all was over, accomplished, decided.  Whatsoever there was to be “over,” whatsoever the action finally taken, must be a matter lying as far as possible between her father and herself.  Mrs. Vanderpoel’s trouble would be too keen, her anxiety too great to keep to herself, even if she were not overwhelmed by them.  She must be told of the beauties and dimensions of Stornham, all relatable details of Rosy’s life must be generously dwelt on.  Above all Rosy must be made to write letters, and with an air of freedom however specious.