Early next morning there was a sound as of chains being drawnroughly overhead; the steady heart of the _Euphrosyne_ slowly ceasedto beat; and Helen, poking her nose above deck, saw a stationarycastle upon a stationary hill. They had dropped anchor in the mouthof the Tagus, and instead of cleaving new waves perpetually,the same waves kept returning and washing against the sides of the ship.

　　As soon as breakfast was done, Willoughby disappeared overthe vessel's side, carrying a brown leather case, shouting overhis shoulder that every one was to mind and behave themselves,for he would be kept in Lisbon doing business until five o'clockthat afternoon.

　　At about that hour he reappeared, carrying his case, professinghimself tired, bothered, hungry, thirsty, cold, and in immediate needof his tea. Rubbing his hands, he told them the adventures of the day:

　　how he had come upon poor old Jackson combing his moustache beforethe glass in the office, little expecting his descent, had put himthrough such a morning's work as seldom came his way; then treated himto a lunch of champagne and ortolans; paid a call upon Mrs. Jackson,who was fatter than ever, poor woman, but asked kindly after Rachel--and O Lord, little Jackson had confessed to a confounded pieceof weakness--well, well, no harm was done, he supposed, but whatwas the use of his giving orders if they were promptly disobeyed?

　　He had said distinctly that he would take no passengers on this trip.

　　Here he began searching in his pockets and eventually discovered a card,which he planked down on the table before Rachel. On it she read,"Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway, 23 Browne Street, Mayfair.""Mr. Richard Dalloway," continued Vinrace, "seems to be a gentlemanwho thinks that because he was once a member of Parliament,and his wife's the daughter of a peer, they can have what theylike for the asking. They got round poor little Jackson anyhow.

　　Said they must have passages--produced a letter from Lord Glenaway,asking me as a personal favour--overruled any objections Jackson made(I don't believe they came to much), and so there's nothing for itbut to submit, I suppose."But it was evident that for some reason or other Willoughby wasquite pleased to submit, although he made a show of growling.

　　The truth was that Mr. and Mrs. Dalloway had found themselvesstranded in Lisbon. They had been travelling on the Continent forsome weeks, chiefly with a view to broadening Mr. Dalloway's mind.

　　Unable for a season, by one of the accidents of political life,to serve his country in Parliament, Mr. Dalloway was doing the besthe could to serve it out of Parliament. For that purpose the Latincountries did very well, although the East, of course, would havedone better.

　　"Expect to hear of me next in Petersburg or Teheran," he had said,turning to wave farewell from the steps of the Travellers'. Buta disease had broken out in the East, there was cholera in Russia,and he was heard of, not so romantically, in Lisbon. They had beenthrough France; he had stopped at manufacturing centres where,producing letters of introduction, he had been shown over works,and noted facts in a pocket-book. In Spain he and Mrs. Dalloway hadmounted mules, for they wished to understand how the peasants live.

　　Are they ripe for rebellion, for example? Mrs. Dalloway hadthen insisted upon a day or two at Madrid with the pictures.

　　Finally they arrived in Lisbon and spent six days which, in a journalprivately issued afterwards, they described as of "unique interest."Richard had audiences with ministers, and foretold a crisis at nodistant date, "the foundations of government being incurably corrupt.

　　Yet how blame, etc."; while Clarissa inspected the royal stables,and took several snapshots showing men now exiled and windows now broken.

　　Among other things she photographed Fielding's grave, and let loosea small bird which some ruffian had trapped, "because one hatesto think of anything in a cage where English people lie buried,"the diary stated. Their tour was thoroughly unconventional,and followed no meditated plan. The foreign correspondentsof the _Times_ decided their route as much as anything else.

　　Mr. Dalloway wished to look at certain guns, and was of opinionthat the African coast is far more unsettled than people at homewere inclined to believe. For these reasons they wanted a slowinquisitive kind of ship, comfortable, for they were bad sailors,but not extravagant, which would stop for a day or two at thisport and at that, taking in coal while the Dalloways saw thingsfor themselves. Meanwhile they found themselves stranded in Lisbon,unable for the moment to lay hands upon the precise vessel they wanted.

　　They heard of the _Euphrosyne_, but heard also that she was primarilya cargo boat, and only took passengers by special arrangement,her business being to carry dry goods to the Amazons, and rubberhome again. "By special arrangement," however, were words of highencouragement to them, for they came of a class where almosteverything was specially arranged, or could be if necessary.

　　On this occasion all that Richard did was to write a noteto Lord Glenaway, the head of the line which bears his title;to call on poor old Jackson; to represent to him how Mrs. Dallowaywas so-and-so, and he had been something or other else,and what they wanted was such and such a thing. It was done.

　　They parted with compliments and pleasure on both sides, and here,a week later, came the boat rowing up to the ship in the dusk withthe Dalloways on board of it; in three minutes they were standingtogether on the deck of the _Euphrosyne_. Their arrival, of course,created some stir, and it was seen by several pairs of eyes thatMrs. Dalloway was a tall slight woman, her body wrapped in furs,her head in veils, while Mr. Dalloway appeared to be a middle-sizedman of sturdy build, dressed like a sportsman on an autumnal moor.

　　Many solid leather bags of a rich brown hue soon surrounded them,in addition to which Mr. Dalloway carried a despatch box, and his wifea dressing-case suggestive of a diamond necklace and bottles withsilver tops.

　　"It's so like Whistler!" she exclaimed, with a wave towards the shore,as she shook Rachel by the hand, and Rachel had only time to lookat the grey hills on one side of her before Willoughby introducedMrs. Chailey, who took the lady to her cabin.

　　Momentary though it seemed, nevertheless the interruption was upsetting;every one was more or less put out by it, from Mr. Grice,the steward, to Ridley himself. A few minutes later Rachel passedthe smoking-room, and found Helen moving arm-chairs. She was absorbedin her arrangements, and on seeing Rachel remarked confidentially:

　　"If one can give men a room to themselves where they will sit,it's all to the good. Arm-chairs are _the_ important things--"She began wheeling them about. "Now, does it still look like a barat a railway station?"She whipped a plush cover off a table. The appearance of the placewas marvellously improved.

　　Again, the arrival of the strangers made it obvious to Rachel,as the hour of dinner approached, that she must change her dress;and the ringing of the great bell found her sitting on the edge of herberth in such a position that the little glass above the washstandreflected her head and shoulders. In the glass she wore an expressionof tense melancholy, for she had come to the depressing conclusion,since the arrival of the Dalloways, that her face was not the faceshe wanted, and in all probability never would be.

　　However, punctuality had been impressed on her, and whatever faceshe had, she must go in to dinner.

　　These few minutes had been used by Willoughby in sketching to theDalloways the people they were to meet, and checking them upon his fingers.

　　"There's my brother-in-law, Ambrose, the scholar (I daresayyou've heard his name), his wife, my old friend Pepper, a veryquiet fellow, but knows everything, I'm told. And that's all.

　　We're a very small party. I'm dropping them on the coast."Mrs. Dalloway, with her head a little on one side, did her bestto recollect Ambrose--was it a surname?--but failed. She was madeslightly uneasy by what she had heard. She knew that scholarsmarried any one--girls they met in farms on reading parties;or little suburban women who said disagreeably, "Of course I knowit's my husband you want; not _me_."But Helen came in at that point, and Mrs. Dalloway saw with reliefthat though slightly eccentric in appearance, she was not untidy,held herself well, and her voice had restraint in it, which she heldto be the sign of a lady. Mr. Pepper had not troubled to changehis neat ugly suit.

　　"But after all," Clarissa thought to herself as she followed Vinracein to dinner, "_every_ _one's_ interesting really."When seated at the table she had some need of that assurance,chiefly because of Ridley, who came in late, looked decidedly unkempt,and took to his soup in profound gloom.

　　An imperceptible signal passed between husband and wife, meaning thatthey grasped the situation and would stand by each other loyally.

　　With scarcely a pause Mrs. Dalloway turned to Willoughby and began:

　　"What I find so tiresome about the sea is that there are no flowersin it. Imagine fields of hollyhocks and violets in mid-ocean!

　　How divine!""But somewhat dangerous to navigation," boomed Richard, in the bass,like the bassoon to the flourish of his wife's violin. "Why, weedscan be bad enough, can't they, Vinrace? I remember crossing in the_Mauretania_ once, and saying to the Captain--Richards--did you knowhim?--'Now tell me what perils you really dread most for your ship,Captain Richards?' expecting him to say icebergs, or derelicts,or fog, or something of that sort. Not a bit of it. I've alwaysremembered his answer. '_Sedgius_ _aquatici_,' he said, which Itake to be a kind of duck-weed."Mr. Pepper looked up sharply, and was about to put a questionwhen Willoughby continued:

　　"They've an awful time of it--those captains! Three thousand soulson board!""Yes, indeed," said Clarissa. She turned to Helen with an airof profundity. "I'm convinced people are wrong when they say it'swork that wears one; it's responsibility. That's why one paysone's cook more than one's housemaid, I suppose.""According to that, one ought to pay one's nurse double;but one doesn't," said Helen.

　　"No; but think what a joy to have to do with babies, instead of saucepans!"said Mrs. Dalloway, looking with more interest at Helen, a probable mother.

　　"I'd much rather be a cook than a nurse," said Helen. "Nothing wouldinduce me to take charge of children.""Mothers always exaggerate," said Ridley. "A well-bred childis no responsibility. I've travelled all over Europe with mine.

　　You just wrap 'em up warm and put 'em in the rack."Helen laughed at that. Mrs. Dalloway exclaimed, looking at Ridley:

　　"How like a father! My husband's just the same. And then one talksof the equality of the sexes!""Does one?" said Mr. Pepper.

　　"Oh, some do!" cried Clarissa. "My husband had to pass an iratelady every afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine.""She sat outside the house; it was very awkward," said Dalloway.

　　"At last I plucked up courage and said to her, 'My good creature,you're only in the way where you are. You're hindering me, and you'redoing no good to yourself.'""And then she caught him by the coat, and would have scratchedhis eyes out--" Mrs. Dalloway put in.

　　"Pooh--that's been exaggerated," said Richard. "No, I pity them,I confess. The discomfort of sitting on those steps must be awful.""Serve them right," said Willoughby curtly.

　　"Oh, I'm entirely with you there," said Dalloway. "Nobody can condemnthe utter folly and futility of such behaviour more than I do;and as for the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave beforea woman has the right to vote in England! That's all I say."The solemnity of her husband's assertion made Clarissa grave.

　　"It's unthinkable," she said. "Don't tell me you're a suffragist?"she turned to Ridley.

　　"I don't care a fig one way or t'other," said Ambrose.

　　"If any creature is so deluded as to think that a vote doeshim or her any good, let him have it. He'll soon learn better.""You're not a politician, I see," she smiled.

　　"Goodness, no," said Ridley.

　　"I'm afraid your husband won't approve of me," said Dalloway aside,to Mrs. Ambrose. She suddenly recollected that he had beenin Parliament.

　　"Don't you ever find it rather dull?" she asked, not knowing exactlywhat to say.

　　Richard spread his hands before him, as if inscriptions were to beread in the palms of them.

　　"If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull," he said, "I ambound to say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career doyou consider on the whole, taking the good with the bad, the mostenjoyable and enviable, not to speak of its more serious side,of all careers, for a man, I am bound to say, 'The Politician's.'""The Bar or politics, I agree," said Willoughby. "You get more runfor your money.""All one's faculties have their play," said Richard. "I may betreading on dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artistsin general is this: on your own lines, you can't be beaten--granted; but off your own lines--puff--one has to make allowances.

　　Now, I shouldn't like to think that any one had to make allowances for me.""I don't quite agree, Richard," said Mrs. Dalloway. "Think of Shelley.

　　I feel that there's almost everything one wants in 'Adonais.'""Read 'Adonais' by all means," Richard conceded. "But whenever Ihear of Shelley I repeat to myself the words of Matthew Arnold,'What a set! What a set!'"This roused Ridley's attention. "Matthew Arnold? A detestable prig!"he snapped.

　　"A prig--granted," said Richard; "but, I think a man of the world.

　　That's where my point comes in. We politicians doubtless seem to you"(he grasped somehow that Helen was the representative of the arts)"a gross commonplace set of people; but we see both sides;we may be clumsy, but we do our best to get a grasp of things.

　　Now your artists _find_ things in a mess, shrug their shoulders,turn aside to their visions--which I grant may be very beautiful--and _leave_ things in a mess. Now that seems to me evadingone's responsibilities. Besides, we aren't all born with theartistic faculty.""It's dreadful," said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke,had been thinking. "When I'm with artists I feel so intenselythe delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one's own,with pictures and music and everything beautiful, and then I goout into the streets and the first child I meet with its poor,hungry, dirty little face makes me turn round and say, 'No, I_can't_ shut myself up--I _won't_ live in a world of my own.

　　I should like to stop all the painting and writing and musicuntil this kind of thing exists no longer.' Don't you feel,"she wound up, addressing Helen, "that life's a perpetual conflict?"Helen considered for a moment. "No," she said. "I don't thinkI do."There was a pause, which was decidedly uncomfortable.

　　Mrs. Dalloway then gave a little shiver, and asked whethershe might have her fur cloak brought to her. As she adjustedthe soft brown fur about her neck a fresh topic struck her.

　　"I own," she said, "that I shall never forget the _Antigone_.

　　I saw it at Cambridge years ago, and it's haunted me ever since.

　　Don't you think it's quite the most modern thing you ever saw?"she asked Ridley. "It seemed to me I'd known twenty Clytemnestras.

　　Old Lady Ditchling for one. I don't know a word of Greek, but I couldlisten to it for ever--"Here Mr. Pepper struck up:

　　{Some editions of the work contain a brief passage from Antigone,in Greek, at this spot. ed.}

　　Mrs. Dalloway looked at him with compressed lips.

　　"I'd give ten years of my life to know Greek," she said, when hehad done.

　　"I could teach you the alphabet in half an hour," said Ridley,"and you'd read Homer in a month. I should think it an honourto instruct you."Helen, engaged with Mr. Dalloway and the habit, now fallen into decline,of quoting Greek in the House of Commons, noted, in the greatcommonplace book that lies open beside us as we talk, the factthat all men, even men like Ridley, really prefer women to be fashionable.

　　Clarissa exclaimed that she could think of nothing more delightful.

　　For an instant she saw herself in her drawing-room in Browne Streetwith a Plato open on her knees--Plato in the original Greek. She couldnot help believing that a real scholar, if specially interested,could slip Greek into her head with scarcely any trouble.

　　Ridley engaged her to come to-morrow.

　　"If only your ship is going to treat us kindly!" she exclaimed,drawing Willoughby into play. For the sake of guests, and thesewere distinguished, Willoughby was ready with a bow of his headto vouch for the good behaviour even of the waves.

　　"I'm dreadfully bad; and my husband's not very good," sighed Clarissa.

　　"I am never sick," Richard explained. "At least, I have only beenactually sick once," he corrected himself. "That was crossingthe Channel. But a choppy sea, I confess, or still worse, a swell,makes me distinctly uncomfortable. The great thing is neverto miss a meal. You look at the food, and you say, 'I can't';you take a mouthful, and Lord knows how you're going to swallow it;but persevere, and you often settle the attack for good. My wife'sa coward."They were pushing back their chairs. The ladies were hesitatingat the doorway.

　　"I'd better show the way," said Helen, advancing.

　　Rachel followed. She had taken no part in the talk; no one hadspoken to her; but she had listened to every word that was said.

　　She had looked from Mrs. Dalloway to Mr. Dalloway, and from Mr. Dallowayback again. Clarissa, indeed, was a fascinating spectacle.

　　She wore a white dress and a long glittering necklace.

　　What with her clothes, and her arch delicate face, which showedexquisitely pink beneath hair turning grey, she was astonishinglylike an eighteenth-century masterpiece--a Reynolds or a Romney.

　　She made Helen and the others look coarse and slovenly beside her.

　　Sitting lightly upright she seemed to be dealing with the world asshe chose; the enormous solid globe spun round this way and that beneathher fingers. And her husband! Mr. Dalloway rolling that rich deliberatevoice was even more impressive. He seemed to come from the hummingoily centre of the machine where the polished rods are sliding,and the pistons thumping; he grasped things so firmly but so loosely;he made the others appear like old maids cheapening remnants.

　　Rachel followed in the wake of the matrons, as if in a trance;a curious scent of violets came back from Mrs. Dalloway, mingling withthe soft rustling of her skirts, and the tinkling of her chains.

　　As she followed, Rachel thought with supreme self-abasement,taking in the whole course of her life and the lives of allher friends, "She said we lived in a world of our own. It's true.

　　We're perfectly absurd.""We sit in here," said Helen, opening the door of the saloon.

　　"You play?" said Mrs. Dalloway to Mrs. Ambrose, taking up the scoreof _Tristan_ which lay on the table.

　　"My niece does," said Helen, laying her hand on Rachel's shoulder.

　　"Oh, how I envy you!" Clarissa addressed Rachel for the first time.

　　"D'you remember this? Isn't it divine?" She played a bar or twowith ringed fingers upon the page.

　　"And then Tristan goes like this, and Isolde--oh!--it's alltoo thrilling! Have you been to Bayreuth?""No, I haven't," said Rachel. `"Then that's still to come.

　　I shall never forget my first _Parsifal_--a grilling August day,and those fat old German women, come in their stuffy high frocks,and then the dark theatre, and the music beginning, and one couldn'thelp sobbing. A kind man went and fetched me water, I remember;and I could only cry on his shoulder! It caught me here" (she touchedher throat). "It's like nothing else in the world! But where'syour piano?" "It's in another room," Rachel explained.

　　"But you will play to us?" Clarissa entreated. "I can't imagineanything nicer than to sit out in the moonlight and listen to music--only that sounds too like a schoolgirl! You know," she said,turning to Helen, "I don't think music's altogether good for people--I'm afraid not.""Too great a strain?" asked Helen.

　　"Too emotional, somehow," said Clarissa. "One notices it at oncewhen a boy or girl takes up music as a profession. Sir WilliamBroadley told me just the same thing. Don't you hate the kind ofattitudes people go into over Wagner--like this--" She cast her eyesto the ceiling, clasped her hands, and assumed a look of intensity.

　　"It really doesn't mean that they appreciate him; in fact, I alwaysthink it's the other way round. The people who really care aboutan art are always the least affected. D'you know Henry Philips,the painter?" she asked.

　　"I have seen him," said Helen.

　　"To look at, one might think he was a successful stockbroker,and not one of the greatest painters of the age. That's what I like.""There are a great many successful stockbrokers, if you like lookingat them," said Helen.

　　Rachel wished vehemently that her aunt would not be so perverse.

　　"When you see a musician with long hair, don't you know instinctivelythat he's bad?" Clarissa asked, turning to Rachel. "Watts and Joachim--they looked just like you and me.""And how much nicer they'd have looked with curls!" said Helen.

　　"The question is, are you going to aim at beauty or are you not?""Cleanliness!" said Clarissa, "I do want a man to look clean!""By cleanliness you really mean well-cut clothes," said Helen.

　　"There's something one knows a gentleman by," said Clarissa,"but one can't say what it is.""Take my husband now, does he look like a gentleman?"The question seemed to Clarissa in extraordinarily bad taste.

　　"One of the things that can't be said," she would have put it.

　　She could find no answer, but a laugh.

　　"Well, anyhow," she said, turning to Rachel, "I shall insist uponyour playing to me to-morrow."There was that in her manner that made Rachel love her.

　　Mrs. Dalloway hid a tiny yawn, a mere dilation of the nostrils.

　　"D'you know," she said, "I'm extraordinarily sleepy. It's the sea air.

　　I think I shall escape."A man's voice, which she took to be that of Mr. Pepper, stridentin discussion, and advancing upon the saloon, gave her the alarm.

　　"Good-night--good-night!" she said. "Oh, I know my way--do prayfor calm! Good-night!"Her yawn must have been the image of a yawn. Instead of letting hermouth droop, dropping all her clothes in a bunch as though they dependedon one string, and stretching her limbs to the utmost end of her berth,she merely changed her dress for a dressing-gown, with innumerablefrills, and wrapping her feet in a rug, sat down with a writing-padon her knee. Already this cramped little cabin was the dressingroom of a lady of quality. There were bottles containing liquids;there were trays, boxes, brushes, pins. Evidently not an inch of herperson lacked its proper instrument. The scent which had intoxicatedRachel pervaded the air. Thus established, Mrs. Dalloway beganto write. A pen in her hands became a thing one caressed paper with,and she might have been stroking and tickling a kitten as she wrote:

　　Picture us, my dear, afloat in the very oddest ship you can imagine.

　　It's not the ship, so much as the people. One does come acrossqueer sorts as one travels. I must say I find it hugely amusing.

　　There's the manager of the line--called Vinrace--a nice big Englishman,doesn't say much--you know the sort. As for the rest--they mighthave come trailing out of an old number of _Punch_. They're likepeople playing croquet in the 'sixties. How long they've all beenshut up in this ship I don't know--years and years I should say--but one feels as though one had boarded a little separate world,and they'd never been on shore, or done ordinary things intheir lives. It's what I've always said about literary people--they're far the hardest of any to get on with. The worst of it is,these people--a man and his wife and a niece--might have been,one feels, just like everybody else, if they hadn't got swallowed upby Oxford or Cambridge or some such place, and been made cranks of.

　　The man's really delightful (if he'd cut his nails), and the womanhas quite a fine face, only she dresses, of course, in a potato sack,and wears her hair like a Liberty shopgirl's. They talk about art,and think us such poops for dressing in the evening. However, I can'thelp that; I'd rather die than come in to dinner without changing--wouldn't you? It matters ever so much more than the soup.

　　(It's odd how things like that _do_ matter so much more than what'sgenerally supposed to matter. I'd rather have my head cut offthan wear flannel next the skin.) Then there's a nice shy girl--poor thing--I wish one could rake her out before it's too late.

　　She has quite nice eyes and hair, only, of course, she'll getfunny too. We ought to start a society for broadening the mindsof the young--much more useful than missionaries, Hester! Oh,I'd forgotten there's a dreadful little thing called Pepper.

　　He's just like his name. He's indescribably insignificant,and rather queer in his temper, poor dear. It's like sitting downto dinner with an ill-conditioned fox-terrier, only one can't combhim out, and sprinkle him with powder, as one would one's dog.

　　It's a pity, sometimes, one can't treat people like dogs!

　　The great comfort is that we're away from newspapers, so that Richardwill have a real holiday this time. Spain wasn't a holiday. . .

　　.

　　"You coward!" said Richard, almost filling the room with hissturdy figure.

　　"I did my duty at dinner!" cried Clarissa.

　　"You've let yourself in for the Greek alphabet, anyhow.""Oh, my dear! Who _is_ Ambrose?""I gather that he was a Cambridge don; lives in London now,and edits classics.""Did you ever see such a set of cranks? The woman asked me if Ithought her husband looked like a gentleman!""It was hard to keep the ball rolling at dinner, certainly,"said Richard. "Why is it that the women, in that class,are so much queerer than the men?""They're not half bad-looking, really--only--they're so odd!"They both laughed, thinking of the same things, so that therewas no need to compare their impressions.

　　"I see I shall have quite a lot to say to Vinrace," said Richard.

　　"He knows Sutton and all that set. He can tell me a good deal aboutthe conditions of ship-building in the North.""Oh, I'm glad. The men always _are_ so much better than the women.""One always has something to say to a man certainly," said Richard.

　　"But I've no doubt you'll chatter away fast enough aboutthe babies, Clarice.""Has she got children? She doesn't look like it somehow.""Two. A boy and girl."A pang of envy shot through Mrs. Dalloway's heart.

　　"We _must_ have a son, Dick," she said.

　　"Good Lord, what opportunities there are now for young men!"said Dalloway, for his talk had set him thinking. "I don't supposethere's been so good an opening since the days of Pitt.""And it's yours!" said Clarissa.

　　"To be a leader of men," Richard soliloquised. "It's a fine career.

　　My God--what a career!"The chest slowly curved beneath his waistcoat.

　　"D'you know, Dick, I can't help thinking of England," said hiswife meditatively, leaning her head against his chest. "Being onthis ship seems to make it so much more vivid--what it really meansto be English. One thinks of all we've done, and our navies,and the people in India and Africa, and how we've gone on centuryafter century, sending out boys from little country villages--and of men like you, Dick, and it makes one feel as if one couldn'tbear _not_ to be English! Think of the light burning overthe House, Dick! When I stood on deck just now I seemed to see it.

　　It's what one means by London.""It's the continuity," said Richard sententiously. A vision ofEnglish history, King following King, Prime Minister Prime Minister,and Law Law had come over him while his wife spoke. He ran hismind along the line of conservative policy, which went steadilyfrom Lord Salisbury to Alfred, and gradually enclosed, as thoughit were a lasso that opened and caught things, enormous chunksof the habitable globe.

　　"It's taken a long time, but we've pretty nearly done it," he said;"it remains to consolidate.""And these people don't see it!" Clarissa exclaimed.

　　"It takes all sorts to make a world," said her husband. "There wouldnever be a government if there weren't an opposition.""Dick, you're better than I am," said Clarissa. "You see round,where I only see _there_." She pressed a point on the back ofhis hand.

　　"That's my business, as I tried to explain at dinner.""What I like about you, Dick," she continued, "is that you'realways the same, and I'm a creature of moods.""You're a pretty creature, anyhow," he said, gazing at her withdeeper eyes.

　　"You think so, do you? Then kiss me."He kissed her passionately, so that her half-written letter slidto the ground. Picking it up, he read it without asking leave.

　　"Where's your pen?" he said; and added in his little masculine hand:

　　R.D. _loquitur_: Clarice has omitted to tell you that she lookedexceedingly pretty at dinner, and made a conquest by which shehas bound herself to learn the Greek alphabet. I will take thisoccasion of adding that we are both enjoying ourselves in theseoutlandish parts, and only wish for the presence of our friends(yourself and John, to wit) to make the trip perfectly enjoyableas it promises to be instructive. . . .

　　Voices were heard at the end of the corridor. Mrs. Ambrosewas speaking low; William Pepper was remarking in his definiteand rather acid voice, "That is the type of lady with whomI find myself distinctly out of sympathy. She--"But neither Richard nor Clarissa profited by the verdict, for directlyit seemed likely that they would overhear, Richard crackled a sheetof paper.

　　"I often wonder," Clarissa mused in bed, over the little white volumeof Pascal which went with her everywhere, "whether it is reallygood for a woman to live with a man who is morally her superior,as Richard is mine. It makes one so dependent. I suppose I feelfor him what my mother and women of her generation felt for Christ.

　　It just shows that one can't do without _something_." She then fellinto a sleep, which was as usual extremely sound and refreshing,but visited by fantastic dreams of great Greek letters stalkinground the room, when she woke up and laughed to herself,remembering where she was and that the Greek letters were real people,lying asleep not many yards away. Then, thinking of the blacksea outside tossing beneath the moon, she shuddered, and thoughtof her husband and the others as companions on the voyage.

　　The dreams were not confined to her indeed, but went from onebrain to another. They all dreamt of each other that night,as was natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them,and how strangely they had been lifted off the earth to sit next eachother in mid-ocean, and see every detail of each other's faces,and hear whatever they chanced to say.