Edith Nesbit

“ To him his Lizzie had always been "as the angels of God in Heaven."
Then came the long broken years, and then the little girl—Elizabeth, his step-child.
The pent-up love of all his life spent itself on her: a love so fond, so tender, so sacred that it seemed only self-respecting to hide it a little from the world by a mask of coldness. And Betty had never seen anything but the mask.
"I think, when I see her, I will tell her all about my Lizzie," he said. "I wonder if she knows what the house is like without her. ”

“ Betty smiled back, but with embarrassment. She had heard that French ladies of rank and fashion would as soon go out without their stockings as without their paint, but she had not supposed that the practice extended to art students. And all these ladies were boldly painted—no mere soupçon of carmine and pearl powder, but good solid masterpieces in body colour, black, white and red. She smiled in answer to their obvious friendliness, but she did not ask them for addresses. A handsome black-browed scowling woman sitting alone frowned at her. ”

“ He turned to Betty.
"Will you allow me," he said, "to find a carriage for you, and see you to a hotel?"
"Thank you," said Betty.
He went out to the curbstone and scanned the road for a passing carriage.
"Look here," said the black-browed woman, turning suddenly on Betty; "I daresay you'll think it's not my place to speak—oh, if you don't think so you will some day, when you're grown up,—but look here. I'm not chaffing. It's deadly earnest. You be good. See? There's nothing else that's any good really."
"Yes," said Betty, "I know. If you're not good you won't be happy." ”