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.
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