The last gold of the sun was mellowing the grey stone of the terrace and enriching the green of the weeds thrusting themselves into life between the uneven flags when she reached Stornham, and passing through the house found Lady Anstruthers sitting there. In sustenance of her effort to keep up appearances, she had put on a weird little muslin dress and had elaborated the dressing of her thin hair. It was no longer dragged back straight from her face, and she looked a trifle less abject, even a shade prettier. Bettina sat upon the edge of the balustrade and touched the hair with light fingers, ruffling it a little becomingly. “If you had worn it like this yesterday,” she said, “I should have known you.” “Should you, Betty? I never look into a mirror if I can help it, but when I do I never know myself. The thing that stares back at me with its pale eyes is not Rosy. But, of course, everyone grows old.” “Not now! People are just discovering how to grow young instead.” Lady Anstruthers looked into the clear courage of her laughing eyes. “Somehow,” she said, “you say strange things in such a way that one feels as if they must be true, however--however unlike anything else they are.” “They are not as new as they seem,” said Betty. “Ancient philosophers said things like them centuries ago, but people did not believe them. We are just beginning to drag them out of the dust and furbish them up and pretend they are ours, just as people rub up and adorn themselves with jewels dug out of excavations.” “In America people think so many new things,” said poor little Lady Anstruthers with yearning humbleness. “The whole civilised world is thinking what you call new things,” said Betty. “The old ones won't do. They have been tried, and though they have helped us to the place we have reached, they cannot help us any farther. We must begin again.” “It is such a long time since I began,” said Rosy, “such a long time.” “Then there must be another beginning for you, too. The hour has struck.” Lady Anstruthers rose with as involuntary a movement as if a strong hand had drawn her to her feet. She stood facing Betty, a pathetic little figure in her washed-out muslin frock and with her washed-out face and eyes and being, though on her faded cheeks a flush was rising. “Oh, Betty!” she said, “I don't know what there is about you, but there is something which makes one feel as if you believed everything and could do everything, and as if one believes YOU. Whatever you were to say, you would make it seem TRUE. If you said the wildest thing in the world I should BELIEVE you.” Betty got up, too, and there was an extraordinary steadiness in her eyes. “You may,” she answered. “I shall never say one thing to you which is not a truth, not one single thing.” “I believe that,” said Rosy Anstruthers, with a quivering mouth. “I do believe it so.” “I walked to Mount Dunstan,” Betty said later. “Really?” said Rosy. “There and back?”