“Rosy!” Bettina's voice was a hushed, almost awed, thing. “YOU are Rosy?”
The faded little wreck of a creature began to look frightened.
“Rosy!” she repeated, with a small, wry, painful smile.
She was the next moment held in the folding of strong, young arms, against a quickly beating heart. She was being wildly kissed, and the very air seemed rich with warmth and life.
“I am Betty,” she heard. “Look at me, Rosy! I am Betty. Look at me and remember!”
Lady Anstruthers gasped, and broke into a faint, hysteric laugh. She suddenly clutched at Bettina's arm. For a minute her gaze was wild as she looked up.
“Betty,” she cried out. “No! No! No! I can't believe it! I can't! I can't!”
That just this thing could have taken place in her, Bettina had never thought. As she had reflected on her way from the station, the impossible is what one finds one's self face to face with. Twelve years should not have changed a pretty blonde thing of nineteen to a worn, unintelligent-looking dowdy of the order of dowdiness which seems to have lived beyond age and sex. She looked even stupid, or at least stupefied. At this moment she was a silly, middle-aged woman, who did not know what to do. For a few seconds Bettina wondered if she was glad to see her, or only felt awkward and unequal to the situation.
“I can't believe you,” she cried out again, and began to shiver. “Betty! Little Betty? No! No! it isn't!”
She turned to the boy, who had lifted his chin from his stick, and was staring.