I galloped away from Glenby in a rage.  What a blessing Sara had not married me in my absurd youth!  She would have driven me wild with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting pink-and-whiteness.  But there—­there—­there—­gently!  She was a sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; and she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature like Betty into the world.  For that, much might be forgiven her.  By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in an old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven her and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over what she had said.

Was Betty really unlike other girls?  That is to say, unlike them in any respect wherein she should resemble them?  I did not wish this; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls, holding them the sweetest things the good God has made.  I wanted Betty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best and highest manifestation.  Was there anything lacking?

I observed Betty very closely during the next week or so, riding over to Glenby every day and riding back at night, meditating upon my observations.  Eventually I concluded to do what I had never thought myself in the least likely to do.  I would send Betty to a boarding-school for a year.  It was necessary that she should learn how to live with other girls.

I went over to Glenby the next day and found Betty under the beeches on the lawn, just back from a canter.  She was sitting on the dappled mare I had given her on her last birthday, and was laughing at the antics of her rejoicing dogs around her.  I looked at her with much pleasure; it gladdened me to see how much, nay, how totally a child she still was, despite her Churchill height.  Her hair, under her velvet cap, still hung over her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her face had the firm leanness of early youth, but its curves were very fine and delicate.  The brown skin, that worried Sara so, was flushed through with dusky color from her gallop; her long, dark eyes were filled with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood.  More than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a child.  I found myself wishing that it could always remain so.  But I knew it could not; the woman must blossom out some day; it was my duty to see that the flower fulfilled the promise of the bud.

When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for a year, she shrugged, frowned and consented.  Betty had learned that she must consent to what I decreed, even when my decrees were opposed to her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never would be.  But Betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautiful extent of acquiescing in everything I commanded.

“I’ll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen,” she said.  “But why do you want me to go?  You must have a reason—­you always have a reason for anything you do.  What is it?”