I always feel as if I want to tear up what I have written, because I never say half that is in my heart." Mrs.Vanderpoel had kissed that letter many a time.

She was sure that a mark on the paper near this particular sentence was where a tear had fallen.

Bettina was sure of this, too, and sat and looked at the fire for some time.
That night she went to a ball, and when she returned home, she persuaded her mother to go to bed.
"I want to have a talk with father," she exclaimed.

"I am going to ask him something." She went to the great man's private room, where he sat at work, even after the hours when less seriously engaged people come home from balls.
The room he sat in was one of the apartments newspapers had with much detail described.

It was luxuriously comfortable, and its effect was sober and rich and fine.
When Bettina came in, Vanderpoel, looking up to smile at her in welcome, was struck by the fact that as a background to an entering figure of tall, splendid girlhood in a ball dress it was admirable, throwing up all its whiteness and grace and sweep of line.