"That's the tragedy of life--as I always say!" said Mrs. Dalloway.

　　"Beginning things and having to end them. Still, I'm not goingto let _this_ end, if you're willing." It was the morning,the sea was calm, and the ship once again was anchored not far fromanother shore.

　　She was dressed in her long fur cloak, with the veils wound aroundher head, and once more the rich boxes stood on top of each otherso that the scene of a few days back seemed to be repeated.

　　"D'you suppose we shall ever meet in London?" said Ridley ironically.

　　"You'll have forgotten all about me by the time you step out there."He pointed to the shore of the little bay, where they could now seethe separate trees with moving branches.

　　"How horrid you are!" she laughed. "Rachel's coming to see me anyhow--the instant you get back," she said, pressing Rachel's arm.

　　"Now--you've no excuse!"With a silver pencil she wrote her name and address on the flyleafof _Persuasion_, and gave the book to Rachel. Sailors wereshouldering the luggage, and people were beginning to congregate.

　　There were Captain Cobbold, Mr. Grice, Willoughby, Helen, and anobscure grateful man in a blue jersey.

　　"Oh, it's time," said Clarissa. "Well, good-bye. I _do_ like you,"she murmured as she kissed Rachel. People in the way made itunnecessary for Richard to shake Rachel by the hand; he managedto look at her very stiffly for a second before he followed his wifedown the ship's side.

　　The boat separating from the vessel made off towards the land,and for some minutes Helen, Ridley, and Rachel leant overthe rail, watching. Once Mrs. Dalloway turned and waved;but the boat steadily grew smaller and smaller until it ceasedto rise and fall, and nothing could be seen save two resolute backs.

　　"Well, that's over," said Ridley after a long silence. "We shallnever see _them_ again," he added, turning to go to his books.

　　A feeling of emptiness and melancholy came over them; they knewin their hearts that it was over, and that they had parted for ever,and the knowledge filled them with far greater depression thanthe length of their acquaintance seemed to justify. Even as the boatpulled away they could feel other sights and sounds beginning totake the place of the Dalloways, and the feeling was so unpleasantthat they tried to resist it. For so, too, would they be forgotten.

　　In much the same way as Mrs. Chailey downstairs was sweepingthe withered rose-leaves off the dressing-table, so Helen wasanxious to make things straight again after the visitors had gone.

　　Rachel's obvious languor and listlessness made her an easy prey,and indeed Helen had devised a kind of trap. That something hadhappened she now felt pretty certain; moreover, she had come tothink that they had been strangers long enough; she wished to knowwhat the girl was like, partly of course because Rachel showedno disposition to be known. So, as they turned from the rail,she said:

　　"Come and talk to me instead of practising," and led the way tothe sheltered side where the deck-chairs were stretched in the sun.

　　Rachel followed her indifferently. Her mind was absorbed by Richard;by the extreme strangeness of what had happened, and by athousand feelings of which she had not been conscious before.

　　She made scarcely any attempt to listen to what Helen was saying,as Helen indulged in commonplaces to begin with. While Mrs. Ambrosearranged her embroidery, sucked her silk, and threaded her needle,she lay back gazing at the horizon.

　　"Did you like those people?" Helen asked her casually.

　　"Yes," she replied blankly.

　　"You talked to him, didn't you?"She said nothing for a minute.

　　"He kissed me," she said without any change of tone.

　　Helen started, looked at her, but could not make out what she felt.

　　"M-m-m'yes," she said, after a pause. "I thought he was that kindof man.""What kind of man?" said Rachel.

　　"Pompous and sentimental.""I like him," said Rachel.

　　"So you really didn't mind?"For the first time since Helen had known her Rachel's eyes litup brightly.

　　"I did mind," she said vehemently. "I dreamt. I couldn't sleep.""Tell me what happened," said Helen. She had to keep her lipsfrom twitching as she listened to Rachel's story. It was pouredout abruptly with great seriousness and no sense of humour.

　　"We talked about politics. He told me what he had done for thepoor somewhere. I asked him all sorts of questions. He told meabout his own life. The day before yesterday, after the storm,he came in to see me. It happened then, quite suddenly.

　　He kissed me. I don't know why." As she spoke she grew flushed.

　　"I was a good deal excited," she continued. "But I didn't mindtill afterwards; when--" she paused, and saw the figure of the bloatedlittle man again--"I became terrified."From the look in her eyes it was evident she was again terrified.

　　Helen was really at a loss what to say. From the little she knewof Rachel's upbringing she supposed that she had been kept entirelyignorant as to the relations of men with women. With a shynesswhich she felt with women and not with men she did not like toexplain simply what these are. Therefore she took the other courseand belittled the whole affair.

　　"Oh, well," she said, "He was a silly creature, and if I were you,I'd think no more about it.""No," said Rachel, sitting bolt upright, "I shan't do that.

　　I shall think about it all day and all night until I find out exactlywhat it does mean.""Don't you ever read?" Helen asked tentatively.

　　"_Cowper's_ _Letters_--that kind of thing. Father gets them for meor my Aunts."Helen could hardly restrain herself from saying out loud what shethought of a man who brought up his daughter so that at the ageof twenty-four she scarcely knew that men desired women and wasterrified by a kiss. She had good reason to fear that Rachelhad made herself incredibly ridiculous.

　　"You don't know many men?" she asked.

　　"Mr. Pepper," said Rachel ironically.

　　"So no one's ever wanted to marry you?""No," she answered ingenuously.

　　Helen reflected that as, from what she had said, Rachel certainlywould think these things out, it might be as well to help her.

　　"You oughtn't to be frightened," she said. "It's the most naturalthing in the world. Men will want to kiss you, just as they'llwant to marry you. The pity is to get things out of proportion.

　　It's like noticing the noises people make when they eat, or menspitting; or, in short, any small thing that gets on one's nerves."Rachel seemed to be inattentive to these remarks.

　　"Tell me," she said suddenly, "what are those women in Piccadilly?""In Picadilly? They are prostituted," said Helen.

　　"It _is_ terrifying--it _is_ disgusting," Rachel asserted, as if sheincluded Helen in the hatred.

　　"It is," said Helen. "But--""I did like him," Rachel mused, as if speaking to herself.

　　"I wanted to talk to him; I wanted to know what he'd done.

　　The women in Lancashire--"It seemed to her as she recalled their talk that there was somethinglovable about Richard, good in their attempted friendship,and strangely piteous in the way they had parted.

　　The softening of her mood was apparent to Helen.

　　"You see," she said, "you must take things as they are; and if you wantfriendship with men you must run risks. Personally," she continued,breaking into a smile, "I think it's worth it; I don't mindbeing kissed; I'm rather jealous, I believe, that Mr. Dalloway kissedyou and didn't kiss me. Though," she added, "he bored me considerably."But Rachel did not return the smile or dismiss the whole affair,as Helen meant her to. Her mind was working very quickly,inconsistently and painfully. Helen's words hewed down great blockswhich had stood there always, and the light which came in was cold.

　　After sitting for a time with fixed eyes, she burst out:

　　"So that's why I can't walk alone!"By this new light she saw her life for the first time a creepinghedged-in thing, driven cautiously between high walls,here turned aside, there plunged in darkness, made dull andcrippled for ever--her life that was the only chance she had--a thousand words and actions became plain to her.

　　"Because men are brutes! I hate men!" she exclaimed.

　　"I thought you said you liked him?" said Helen.

　　"I liked him, and I liked being kissed," she answered, as if thatonly added more difficulties to her problem.

　　Helen was surprised to see how genuine both shock and problem were,but she could think of no way of easing the difficulty except by goingon talking. She wanted to make her niece talk, and so to understandwhy this rather dull, kindly, plausible politician had made so deepan impression on her, for surely at the age of twenty-four thiswas not natural.

　　"And did you like Mrs. Dalloway too?" she asked.

　　As she spoke she saw Rachel redden; for she remembered silly thingsshe had said, and also, it occurred to her that she treated thisexquisite woman rather badly, for Mrs. Dalloway had said that sheloved her husband.

　　"She was quite nice, but a thimble-pated creature," Helen continued.

　　"I never heard such nonsense! Chitter-chatter-chitter-chatter--fish and the Greek alphabet--never listened to a word any one said--chock-full of idiotic theories about the way to bring up children--I'd far rather talk to him any day. He was pompous, but he did atleast understand what was said to him."The glamour insensibly faded a little both from Richard and Clarissa.

　　They had not been so wonderful after all, then, in the eyes of amature person.

　　"It's very difficult to know what people are like," Rachel remarked,and Helen saw with pleasure that she spoke more naturally.

　　"I suppose I was taken in."There was little doubt about that according to Helen, but sherestrained herself and said aloud:

　　"One has to make experiments.""And they _were_ nice," said Rachel. "They were extraordinarilyinteresting." She tried to recall the image of the world as alive thing that Richard had given her, with drains like nerves,and bad houses like patches of diseased skin. She recalledhis watch-words--Unity--Imagination, and saw again the bubblesmeeting in her tea-cup as he spoke of sisters and canaries,boyhood and his father, her small world becoming wonderfully enlarged.

　　"But all people don't seem to you equally interesting, do they?"asked Mrs. Ambrose.

　　Rachel explained that most people had hitherto been symbols;but that when they talked to one they ceased to be symbols,and became--"I could listen to them for ever!" she exclaimed.

　　She then jumped up, disappeared downstairs for a minute, and came backwith a fat red book.

　　"_Who's_ _Who_," she said, laying it upon Helen's knee and turningthe pages. "It gives short lives of people--for instance:

　　'Sir Roland Beal; born 1852; parents from Moffatt; educated at Rugby;passed first into R.E.; married 1878 the daughter of T. Fishwick;served in the Bechuanaland Expedition 1884-85 (honourably mentioned). Clubs:

　　United Service, Naval and Military. Recreations: an enthusiastic curler.'"Sitting on the deck at Helen's feet she went on turning thepages and reading biographies of bankers, writers, clergymen,sailors, surgeons, judges, professors, statesmen, editors,philanthropists, merchants, and actresses; what clubs they belongedto, where they lived, what games they played, and how many acres they owned.

　　She became absorbed in the book.

　　Helen meanwhile stitched at her embroidery and thought over the thingsthey had said. Her conclusion was that she would very much like toshow her niece, if it were possible, how to live, or as she put it,how to be a reasonable person. She thought that there must be somethingwrong in this confusion between politics and kissing politicians,and that an elder person ought to be able to help.

　　"I quite agree," she said, "that people are very interesting;only--" Rachel, putting her finger between the pages, looked up enquiringly.

　　"Only I think you ought to discriminate," she ended. "It's a pityto be intimate with people who are--well, rather second-rate,like the Dalloways, and to find it out later.""But how does one know?" Rachel asked.

　　"I really can't tell you," replied Helen candidly, after amoment's thought. "You'll have to find out for yourself. But try and--Why don't you call me Helen?" she added. "'Aunt's' a horrid name.

　　I never liked my Aunts.""I should like to call you Helen," Rachel answered.

　　"D'you think me very unsympathetic?"Rachel reviewed the points which Helen had certainly failedto understand; they arose chiefly from the difference of nearlytwenty years in age between them, which made Mrs. Ambrose appeartoo humorous and cool in a matter of such moment.

　　"No," she said. "Some things you don't understand, of course.""Of course," Helen agreed. "So now you can go ahead and be a personon your own account," she added.

　　The vision of her own personality, of herself as a real everlastingthing, different from anything else, unmergeable, like the seaor the wind, flashed into Rachel's mind, and she became profoundlyexcited at the thought of living.

　　"I can by m-m-myself," she stammered, "in spite of you, in spiteof the Dalloways, and Mr. Pepper, and Father, and my Aunts, in spiteof these?" She swept her hand across a whole page of statesmenand soldiers.

　　"In spite of them all," said Helen gravely. She then put down her needle,and explained a plan which had come into her head as they talked.

　　Instead of wandering on down the Amazons until she reached somesulphurous tropical port, where one had to lie within doors all daybeating off insects with a fan, the sensible thing to do surelywas to spend the season with them in their villa by the seaside,where among other advantages Mrs. Ambrose herself would be at hand to--"After all, Rachel," she broke off, "it's silly to pretend thatbecause there's twenty years' difference between us we thereforecan't talk to each other like human beings.""No; because we like each other," said Rachel.

　　"Yes," Mrs. Ambrose agreed.

　　That fact, together with other facts, had been made clear by theirtwenty minutes' talk, although how they had come to these conclusionsthey could not have said.

　　However they were come by, they were sufficiently serious to sendMrs. Ambrose a day or two later in search of her brother-in-law. Shefound him sitting in his room working, applying a stout blue pencilauthoritatively to bundles of filmy paper. Papers lay to left andto right of him, there were great envelopes so gorged with papersthat they spilt papers on to the table. Above him hung a photographof a woman's head. The need of sitting absolutely still beforea Cockney photographer had given her lips a queer little pucker,and her eyes for the same reason looked as though she thoughtthe whole situation ridiculous. Nevertheless it was the headof an individual and interesting woman, who would no doubt haveturned and laughed at Willoughby if she could have caught his eye;but when he looked up at her he sighed profoundly. In his mindthis work of his, the great factories at Hull which showed likemountains at night, the ships that crossed the ocean punctually,the schemes for combining this and that and building up a solidmass of industry, was all an offering to her; he laid his successat her feet; and was always thinking how to educate his daughterso that Theresa might be glad. He was a very ambitious man;and although he had not been particularly kind to her while she lived,as Helen thought, he now believed that she watched him from Heaven,and inspired what was good in him.

　　Mrs. Ambrose apologised for the interruption, and asked whethershe might speak to him about a plan of hers. Would he consentto leave his daughter with them when they landed, instead of takingher on up the Amazons?

　　"We would take great care of her," she added, "and we should reallylike it."Willoughby looked very grave and carefully laid aside his papers.

　　"She's a good girl," he said at length. "There is a likeness?"--he nodded his head at the photograph of Theresa and sighed. Helen lookedat Theresa pursing up her lips before the Cockney photographer.

　　It suggested her in an absurd human way, and she felt an intensedesire to share some joke.

　　"She's the only thing that's left to me," sighed Willoughby.

　　"We go on year after year without talking about these things--"He broke off. "But it's better so. Only life's very hard."Helen was sorry for him, and patted him on the shoulder, but shefelt uncomfortable when her brother-in-law expressed his feelings,and took refuge in praising Rachel, and explaining why she thoughther plan might be a good one.

　　"True," said Willoughby when she had done. "The social conditionsare bound to be primitive. I should be out a good deal. I agreedbecause she wished it. And of course I have complete confidencein you. . . . You see, Helen," he continued, becoming confidential,"I want to bring her up as her mother would have wished. I don'thold with these modern views--any more than you do, eh? She's a nicequiet girl, devoted to her music--a little less of _that_ woulddo no harm. Still, it's kept her happy, and we lead a very quietlife at Richmond. I should like her to begin to see more people.

　　I want to take her about with me when I get home. I've half a mindto rent a house in London, leaving my sisters at Richmond, and takeher to see one or two people who'd be kind to her for my sake.

　　I'm beginning to realise," he continued, stretching himself out,"that all this is tending to Parliament, Helen. It's the only wayto get things done as one wants them done. I talked to Dallowayabout it. In that case, of course, I should want Rachel to be ableto take more part in things. A certain amount of entertaining wouldbe necessary--dinners, an occasional evening party. One's constituentslike to be fed, I believe. In all these ways Rachel could beof great help to me. So," he wound up, "I should be very glad,if we arrange this visit (which must be upon a business footing,mind), if you could see your way to helping my girl, bringing her out--she's a little shy now,--making a woman of her, the kind of womanher mother would have liked her to be," he ended, jerking his head atthe photograph.

　　Willoughby's selfishness, though consistent as Helen saw with realaffection for his daughter, made her determined to have the girlto stay with her, even if she had to promise a complete courseof instruction in the feminine graces. She could not help laughingat the notion of it--Rachel a Tory hostess!--and marvelling as sheleft him at the astonishing ignorance of a father.

　　Rachel, when consulted, showed less enthusiasm than Helen couldhave wished. One moment she was eager, the next doubtful. Visions ofa great river, now blue, now yellow in the tropical sun and crossedby bright birds, now white in the moon, now deep in shade with movingtrees and canoes sliding out from the tangled banks, beset her.

　　Helen promised a river. Then she did not want to leave her father.

　　That feeling seemed genuine too, but in the end Helen prevailed,although when she had won her case she was beset by doubts,and more than once regretted the impulse which had entangled herwith the fortunes of another human being.