"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."