She saw it was good for her, merely to look on at the unpacking of the New York boxes, which the maid, sent for from London, brought down with her.
As the woman removed, from tray after tray, the tissue-paper-enfolded layers of garments, Lady Anstruthers sat and watched her with normal, simply feminine interest growing in her eyes.

The things were made with the absence of any limit in expenditure, the freedom with delicate stuffs and priceless laces which belonged only to her faint memories of a lost past.
Nothing had limited the time spent in the embroidering of this apparently simple linen frock and coat; nothing had restrained the hand holding the scissors which had cut into the lace which adorned in appliques and filmy frills this exquisitely charming ball dress.
"It is looking back so far," she said, waving her hand towards them with an odd gesture.

"To think that it was once all like--like that." She got up and went to the things, turning them over, and touching them with a softness, almost expressing a caress.

The names of the makers stamped on bands and collars, the names of the streets in which their shops stood, moved her.

She heard again the once familiar rattle of wheels, and the rush and roar of New York traffic.
Betty carried on the whole matter with lightness.