But they needn't mind: if the protesters were nice people according to my standard, you may be sure Honoria knew them.

But of all her friends none was dearer and closer--save her husband--than Vivie Warren--pal of pals, brave comrade of the unflinching eyes.

And somehow Vivie (since she fell in love with Michael Rossiter) was ten times dearer than she had been before: she was more understanding; she had a brighter eye, a much greater sense of humour; she was tenderer; she liked children as she never had done in bygone years, and was soon adopted by the four children in Kensington Square as "Aunt Vivie" (They also--the two elder ones--had a vague remembrance of an Uncle David who had brought them toys and sweetmeats in a dim past).

Aunt Vivie and Mummie used to get up the most amusing Suffrage meetings in the long, narrow garden behind the house; or they combined forces with Lady Maud Parry, and spoke in lilting contralto or mezzo-soprano (with the compliant tenor or baritone of here and there a captive man) across the two gardens.

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.