"And in America we are pleased," she said, "and flatter ourselves that
we are receiving the proper tribute of adoration of our American wit and
beauty. We plume ourselves on our conquests."
"No, Betty," said her father, and his reflective deliberation had
meaning. "There are a lot of us who don't plume ourselves particularly
in these days. We are not as innocent as we were when this sort of thing
began. We are not as innocent as we were when Rosy was married." And
he sighed and rubbed his forehead with the handle of his pen. "Not as
innocent as we were when Rosy was married," he repeated.
Bettina went to him and slid her fine young arm round his neck. It was
a long, slim, round arm with a wonderful power to caress in its curves.
She kissed Vanderpoel's lined cheek.
"Have you had time to think much about Rosy?" she said.
"I've not had time, but I've done it," he answered. "Anything that hurts
your mother hurts me. Sometimes she begins to cry in her sleep, and when
I wake her she tells me she has been dreaming that she has seen Rosy."
"I have had time to think of her," said Bettina. "I have heard so much
of these things. I was at school in Germany when Annie Butterfield and
Baron von Steindahl were married.
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