I don't like to think of those next days. They were all a strain and a tangle. I cannot imagine what we should have done without Eric. For the way Bettina took her disappointment made my mother positively ill. Eric's prescription was hard to fill: "Peace of mind--absolute quiet and tranquillity." "You are less alarmed," he said in that direct way of his, "than you were that first day you brought me here. But you have more reason." * * * * * I did not want Bettina fully to realise the cloud that was so surely gathering to burst--and yet I was angry at her failure to realise. So unreasonable, so unkind I found I could be! Oh, I lost patience more than once. But my mother, never. "You will see all the beautiful places some day, my darling." Bettina was sure she never should. This had been her one chance--who else was likely to take her? "The fit and proper person. Your husband will take you, as your father took me." That answer surprised us both. I could not blame Bettina for feeling that it seemed to postpone the delights of travel overlong. The strange new Bettina went about the house, settling to nothing, at once restive and idle. All on edge. The worst sign of all was that she neglected her music. My mother remonstrated. "What's the use?" "You will find your music a very important part of your equipment." "Equipment!" said the new Bettina scornfully. "Equipment for what?" "For taking your place in the world." "The world!" Bettina exchanged looks with me. Yes, the world seemed far away. Inaccessible. "If we never go anywhere--never see anyone, what is the use in being equipped?" I think Bettina was sorry she said that. The effect of it was as though some rude hand had thrown down a screen. My mother looking up with hollow, startled eyes must have caught a glimpse of something that she dreaded. * * * * * "Don't put it off," she whispered. "Write to your Aunt Josephine to-night." I composed my letter very carefully. My sister and I had often wished, I wrote, that we had some acquaintance with our only relation. Especially as she and our father had been so much to each other. Our mother was in poor health. We lived very quietly. But we all hoped if ever Aunt Josephine came to this part of the world--a very pretty part--she would come to see us. I was nearly nineteen now, and I was hers "affectionately." Feeling myself very diplomatic and "deep," I enclosed the last photograph Hermione had taken of Bettina. I wrote on it "Betty at sixteen--but it does not do her justice." If anything could win her over, it would be that snapshot of Betty dancing on Duncombe lawn. I posted the letter in an access of remorse and wretchedness--afraid I had left it too late. For my mother had said, "After all, instead of your leaving me, I shall have to leave you."