Her failure balanced her plumpness.
Here, at any rate, was the beginning of a great friendship between Barbara Flint and Mary Adams.

The character of Mary Adams was admittedly a difficult one to explore; her mother, a cloud of nurses and a company of governesses had been baffled completely by its dark caverns and recesses.

One clue, beyond question, was selfishness; but this quality, by the very obviousness of it, may tempt us to believe that that is all.
It may account, when we are displeased, for so much.

It accounted for a great deal with Mary--but not all.

She had, I believe, a quite genuine affection for Barbara, nothing very disturbing, that could rival the question as to whether she would receive a second helping of pudding or no, or whether she looked better in blue or pink.