Adams was there. Mary Adams was aged nine, and her difference from
Barbara Flint was that, whereas Barbara craved for affection, she craved
for attention: the two demands can be easily confused. Mary Adams was
the only child of an aged philosopher, Mr. Adams, who, contrary to all
that philosophy teaches, had married a young wife. The young wife,
pleased that Mary was so unlike her father, made much of her, and Mary
was delighted to be made much of. She was a little girl with flaxen
hair, blue eyes, and a fine pink-and-white colouring. In a few years'
time she will be so sure of the attention that her appearance is winning
for her that she will make no effort to secure adherents, but just now
she is not sufficiently confident--she must take trouble. She took
trouble with Barbara.

Sitting neatly upon a seat, Mary watched rude little boys throw sidelong
glances in her direction. Her long black legs were quivering with the
perception of their interest, even though her eyes were haughtily
indifferent. It was then that Barbara, with Miss Letts, an absent-minded
companion, came and sat by her side. Barbara and Mary had met at a
party--not quite on equal terms, because nine to seven is as sixty to
thirty--but they had played hide-and-seek together, and had, by chance,
hidden in the same cupboard.

The little boys had moved away, and Mary Adams's legs dropped, suddenly,
their tension.

"I'm going to a party to-night," Mary said, with a studied indifference.

Miss Letts knew of Mary's parents, and that, socially, they were "all
right"--a little more "all right," were we to be honest, than Mr. and
Mrs. Flint. She said, therefore: