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Sara was fairly well satisfied. It was not my fault that Betty was not better looking, she said. I had certainly done everything for her mind and character that could be done. Sara’s manner implied that these unimportant details did not count for much, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and dimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me.

“When Betty is twenty-five,” I said patiently–I had grown used to speaking patiently to Sara–“she will be a magnificent woman– far handsomer than you ever were, Sara, in your pinkest and whitest prime. Where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can’t see the promise of loveliness in Betty?”

“Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever she was,” sighed Sara. “When I was seventeen I was the belle of the county and had had five proposals. I don’t believe the thought of a lover has ever entered Betty’s head.”

“I hope not,” I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like the suggestion. “Betty is a child yet. For pity’s sake, Sara, don’t go putting nonsensical ideas into her head.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” mourned Sara, as if it were something to be regretted. “You have filled it too full of books and things like that. I’ve every confidence in your judgment, Stephen–and really you’ve done wonders with Betty. But don’t you think you’ve made her rather too clever? Men don’t like women who are too clever. Her poor father, now–he always said that a woman who liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature.”

I didn’t believe Jack had ever said anything so foolish. Sara imagined things. But I resented the aspersion of blue-stockingness cast on Betty.

“When the time comes for Betty to be interested in beaux,” I said severely, “she will probably give them all due attention. Just at present her head is a great deal better filled with books than with silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. I’m a critical old fellow–but I’m satisfied with Betty, Sara– perfectly satisfied.”

Sara sighed.

“Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I’m really grateful to you. I’m sure I could have done nothing at all with her. It’s not your fault, of course,–but I can’t help wishing she were a little more like other girls.”

I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing Sara had not married me in my absurd youth! She would have driven me wild with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting pink-and-whiteness. But there–there–there–gently! She was a sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; and she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature like Betty into the world. For that, much might be forgiven her. By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in an old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven her and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over what she had said.

Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say, unlike them in any respect wherein she should resemble them? I did not wish this; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls, holding them the sweetest things the good God has made. I wanted Betty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best and highest manifestation. Was there anything lacking?

I observed Betty very closely during the next week or so, riding over to Glenby every day and riding back at night, meditating upon my observations. Eventually I concluded to do what I had never thought myself in the least likely to do. I would send Betty to a boarding-school for a year. It was necessary that she should learn how to live with other girls.