Or somehow they commandeered the Square
Garden on the pretext of a vast Garden Party, at which every one
talked and laughed at once over their Suffrage views.
Yes: Honoria was happy then, as indeed she had been during most of
her life, except when her brother died and her mother died. What did
she lack for happiness? Nothing that this world can give in the
opening twentieth century ... not even a very good pianola or a
motor. I feel somehow it was almost unfair (in my rage at the
inequality of treatment meted out by the Powers Beyond). Shall not
General Sir Petworth Armstrong die in the great debacle of the
world-wide War? I shall see, later. And yet I feel that this nucleus
of pure happiness housed in Kensington Square--or at Petworth
Manor--was to the little world that revolved round the Armstrongs
like a good radiator in a cold house. It warmed many a chilly nature
into fructification; it healed many a scar, it brightened many a
humble life, like that of Bertie Adams's hard-working, washerwoman
mother, or the game-keeper's crippled child at Petworth or the
newest, suburbanest little employe of _Fraser and Claridge's_ huge
establishment in the Brompton Road. It pulled straight the wayward
life of some young subaltern, about to come a cropper, but who after
a talk or two with that jolly Mrs. Armstrong took quite a different
course and made a decent marriage.
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