The little round hat, Lizzie wore one like it herself, tilted forward,
perched on her chignon.

"Well, then----" she pleaded.

Lizzie's face darted its teasing, mysterious smile.

She loved Lizzie best of her friends after Priscilla. She loved her
mockery and her teasing wit.

And there was Lizzie's friend, Sarah Barmby, who lived in one of those
little shabby villas on the London road and looked after her father. She
moved about the villa in an unseeing, shambling way, hitting herself
against the furniture. Her face was heavy with a gentle, brooding
goodness, and she had little eyes that blinked and twinkled in the
heaviness, as if something amused her. At first you kept on wondering what
the joke was, till you saw it was only a habit Sarah had. She came when
she could spare time from her father.

Next to Lizzie, Harriett loved Sarah. She loved her goodness.

And Connie Hancock, bouncing about hospitably in the large, rich house.
Tea-parties and dances at the Hancocks'.

She wasn't sure that she liked dancing. There was something obscurely
dangerous about it. She was afraid of being lifted off her feet and swung
on and on, away from her safe, happy life. She was stiff and abrupt with
her partners, convinced that none of those men who liked Connie Hancock
could like her, and anxious to show them that she didn't expect them to.