Just
clear-eyed, good-tempered, good-looking, roguish and spontaneously
natural and reasonably self-willed children, who adored their
parents and did not openly mock at the Elishas that called on them.
Then there were Honoria's friends. I gave a sort of list of them in
Chapter II--which I am told has caused considerable offence, not by
what was put _in_ but to those who were left out. But they needn't
mind: if the protesters were nice people according to my standard,
you may be sure Honoria knew them. But of all her friends none was
dearer and closer--save her husband--than Vivie Warren--pal of pals,
brave comrade of the unflinching eyes. And somehow Vivie (since she
fell in love with Michael Rossiter) was ten times dearer than she
had been before: she was more understanding; she had a brighter eye,
a much greater sense of humour; she was tenderer; she liked children
as she never had done in bygone years, and was soon adopted by the
four children in Kensington Square as "Aunt Vivie" (They also--the
two elder ones--had a vague remembrance of an Uncle David who had
brought them toys and sweetmeats in a dim past). Aunt Vivie and
Mummie used to get up the most amusing Suffrage meetings in the
long, narrow garden behind the house; or they combined forces with
Lady Maud Parry, and spoke in lilting contralto or mezzo-soprano
(with the compliant tenor or baritone of here and there a captive
man) across the two gardens.
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