To concern one's self about her exquisite wardrobe was to have an enlivening occupation.

To see her surrounded, to watch eyes as they followed her, to hear her praised, was to feel something of the happiness she had known in those younger days when New York had been less advanced in its news and methods, and slim little blonde Rosalie had come out in white tulle and waltzed like a fairy with a hundred partners.
"I wonder what Rosy looks like now," the poor woman said involuntarily one day.

Bettina was not a fairy.

When her mother uttered her exclamation Bettina was on the point of going out, and as she stood near her, wrapped in splendid furs, she had the air of a Russian princess.
"She could not have worn the things you do, Betty," said the affectionate maternal creature.

"She was such a little, slight thing.