Mary Abbott's or St. Paul's, Knightsbridge--the
music was so jolly--and gave largely to cheerful charities as well
as to the Suffrage Cause. She would in the approach to Christmas,
1909, look round and survey her happiness: could any one have a more
satisfactory husband? Of course he was a man and had silly mannish
prejudices, but then without them he would not be so lovable. Her
children--two boys and two girls--could you find greater darlings if
you spent a week among the well-bred childern playing round the
Round Pond? Such _natural_ children with really original remarks
and untrained ideas; not artificial Peter Pans who wistfully didn't
want to grow up; not slavish little mimics of the Children's stories
in vogue, pretending to play at Red Indians--when every one knew
that Red Indians nowadays dressed like all the other citizens of the
United States and Canada and sat in Congress and cultivated
political "pulls" or sold patent medicines; or who said "Good
hunting" and other Mowgli shibboleths to mystified relations from
the mid-nineteenth century country towns; nor children who teased
the cat or interfered with the cook or stole jam or did anything
else that was obsolete; or decried Sullivan's music in favour of
Debussy's or of Scarlatini's 17th century _tiraliras_; or wore
spectacles and had to have their front teeth in gold clamps.
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