Lady Helmstone ventured to think not. As I have said, she was ill-accustomed to seeing her invitations set aside. She spoke of Hermione's disappointment ... they were all so fond of Bettina. She should have every care. My mother made her acknowledgments--the suggestion was most kind; most hospitably meant. But Lady Helmstone had only to put it to Bettina. She would soon see. Lady Helmstone smiled. "I think you will find Bettina would like to come with us." I was annoyed at her way of saying that, as if she knew Bettina better than we. I went into the next room, and got out my school-books. I left the door open in case my mother should need me, and I heard them talking about "daughters." There was much to be said, Lady Helmstone thought, for the way they did things in France. My mother preferred the English way. "And yet you will not take it," said the other, with that suavity that allowed her to be impertinent without seeming so. "I don't think--living as you do--you quite realise the trouble mothers take to give their girls the sort of opportunity you are refusing." There were changes--"great and radical changes," she said--changes which my mother, leading this life of the religieuse, was possibly not aware of. My mother deprecated as much as she had heard of these changes. "Ah, but, _necessary_--a question of supply and demand. You can afford to disregard them only if you do not expect your daughters to marry." My mother said stiffly that she saw no reason to suppose her daughters would not marry--"all in good time." They were very young, Bettina a child----