"Such a pretty sight."
"I love children's parties, their faces are always a picture."
"Martin, did you say thank you to Alec for that lovely croquet set?"
"This is what I gave him," said Ben, pushing forward the parcheesi board.
"The girls are so dainty, like little flowers."
"Who is the little dark one, over by the window?"
"That's Joyce.—Why, Joyce dear, what are you crying about?"
The strong maternal voice rang through the room with a terrible publicity of compassion. The children stared. Bunny ran and threw her arms round her friend, who had hidden her face in the curtain. Bunny thought she knew what was wrong. Joyce had forgotten to bring a present, and was ashamed because all the others had done so. The miserable little figure tried to efface itself in the curtain; even the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her pink frock had come undone. Things that are close to us, how loyal they are, how they follow the moods of their owners.
"There, there, honey, what's the trouble? After such a lovely party?" This was authoritative pity, threateningly musical.
