The Voyage Out

by Virginia Woolf

  Chapter III

  Early next morning there was a sound as of chains being drawn roughlyoverhead; the steady heart of the _Euphrosyne_ slowly ceased to beat;and Helen, poking her nose above deck, saw a stationary castle upon astationary hill. They had dropped anchor in the mouth of the Tagus, andinstead of cleaving new waves perpetually, the same waves kept returningand washing against the sides of the ship.

  As soon as breakfast was done, Willoughby disappeared over the vessel'sside, carrying a brown leather case, shouting over his shoulder thatevery one was to mind and behave themselves, for he would be kept inLisbon doing business until five o'clock that afternoon.

  At about that hour he reappeared, carrying his case, professing himselftired, bothered, hungry, thirsty, cold, and in immediate need of histea. Rubbing his hands, he told them the adventures of the day: how hehad come upon poor old Jackson combing his moustache before the glassin the office, little expecting his descent, had put him through sucha morning's work as seldom came his way; then treated him to a lunch ofchampagne and ortolans; paid a call upon Mrs. Jackson, who was fatterthan ever, poor woman, but asked kindly after Rachel--and O Lord, littleJackson had confessed to a confounded piece of weakness--well, well, noharm was done, he supposed, but what was the use of his giving orders ifthey were promptly disobeyed? He had said distinctly that he would takeno passengers on this trip. Here he began searching in his pockets andeventually discovered a card, which he planked down on the table beforeRachel. On it she read, "Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway, 23 BrowneStreet, Mayfair."

  "Mr. Richard Dalloway," continued Vinrace, "seems to be a gentleman whothinks that because he was once a member of Parliament, and his wife'sthe daughter of a peer, they can have what they like for the asking.They got round poor little Jackson anyhow. Said they must havepassages--produced a letter from Lord Glenaway, asking me as a personalfavour--overruled any objections Jackson made (I don't believe they cameto much), and so there's nothing for it but to submit, I suppose."

  But it was evident that for some reason or other Willoughby was quitepleased to submit, although he made a show of growling.

  The truth was that Mr. and Mrs. Dalloway had found themselves strandedin Lisbon. They had been travelling on the Continent for some weeks,chiefly with a view to broadening Mr. Dalloway's mind. Unable for aseason, by one of the accidents of political life, to serve his countryin Parliament, Mr. Dalloway was doing the best he could to serve itout of Parliament. For that purpose the Latin countries did very well,although the East, of course, would have done better.

  "Expect to hear of me next in Petersburg or Teheran," he had said,turning to wave farewell from the steps of the Travellers'. But adisease had broken out in the East, there was cholera in Russia, andhe was heard of, not so romantically, in Lisbon. They had been throughFrance; he had stopped at manufacturing centres where, producing lettersof introduction, he had been shown over works, and noted facts in apocket-book. In Spain he and Mrs. Dalloway had mounted mules, for theywished to understand how the peasants live. Are they ripe for rebellion,for example? Mrs. Dalloway had then insisted upon a day or two at Madridwith the pictures. Finally they arrived in Lisbon and spent six dayswhich, in a journal privately issued afterwards, they described as of"unique interest." Richard had audiences with ministers, and foretolda crisis at no distant date, "the foundations of government beingincurably corrupt. Yet how blame, etc."; while Clarissa inspected theroyal stables, and took several snapshots showing men now exiled andwindows now broken. Among other things she photographed Fielding'sgrave, and let loose a small bird which some ruffian had trapped,"because one hates to think of anything in a cage where English peoplelie buried," the diary stated. Their tour was thoroughly unconventional,and followed no meditated plan. The foreign correspondents of the_Times_ decided their route as much as anything else. Mr. Dallowaywished to look at certain guns, and was of opinion that the Africancoast is far more unsettled than people at home were inclined tobelieve. For these reasons they wanted a slow inquisitive kind of ship,comfortable, for they were bad sailors, but not extravagant, which wouldstop for a day or two at this port and at that, taking in coal whilethe Dalloways saw things for themselves. Meanwhile they found themselvesstranded in Lisbon, unable for the moment to lay hands upon the precisevessel they wanted. They heard of the _Euphrosyne_, but heard also thatshe was primarily a cargo boat, and only took passengers by specialarrangement, her business being to carry dry goods to the Amazons, andrubber home again. "By special arrangement," however, were words of highencouragement to them, for they came of a class where almost everythingwas specially arranged, or could be if necessary. On this occasion allthat Richard did was to write a note to Lord Glenaway, the head of theline which bears his title; to call on poor old Jackson to represent tohim how Mrs. Dalloway was so-and-so, and he had been something or otherelse, and what they wanted was such and such a thing. It was done. Theyparted with compliments and pleasure on both sides, and here, aweek later, came the boat rowing up to the ship in the dusk with theDalloways on board of it; in three minutes they were standing togetheron the deck of the _Euphrosyne_. Their arrival, of course, created somestir, and it was seen by several pairs of eyes that Mrs. Dalloway wasa tall slight woman, her body wrapped in furs, her head in veils, whileMr. Dalloway appeared to be a middle-sized man of sturdy build, dressedlike a sportsman on an autumnal moor. Many solid leather bags of arich brown hue soon surrounded them, in addition to which Mr. Dallowaycarried a despatch box, and his wife a dressing-case suggestive of adiamond necklace and bottles with silver 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 look at thegrey hills on one side of her before Willoughby introduced Mrs. 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 passed the smoking-room,and found Helen moving arm-chairs. She was absorbed in her arrangements,and on seeing Rachel remarked confidentially:

  "If one can give men a room to themselves where they will sit, it's allto the good. Arm-chairs are _the_ important things--" She began wheelingthem about. "Now, does it still look like a bar at a railway station?"

  She whipped a plush cover off a table. The appearance of the place wasmarvellously improved.

  Again, the arrival of the strangers made it obvious to Rachel, as thehour of dinner approached, that she must change her dress; and theringing of the great bell found her sitting on the edge of her berth insuch a position that the little glass above the washstand reflectedher head and shoulders. In the glass she wore an expression of tensemelancholy, for she had come to the depressing conclusion, since thearrival of the Dalloways, that her face was not the face she wanted, andin all probability never would be.

  However, punctuality had been impressed on her, and whatever face shehad, 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 hisfingers.

  "There's my brother-in-law, Ambrose, the scholar (I daresay you've heardhis name), his wife, my old friend Pepper, a very quiet fellow, butknows 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 best torecollect Ambrose--was it a surname?--but failed. She was made slightlyuneasy by what she had heard. She knew that scholars married anyone--girls they met in farms on reading parties; or little suburbanwomen who said disagreeably, "Of course I know it'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, heldherself well, and her voice had restraint in it, which she held to bethe sign of a lady. Mr. Pepper had not troubled to change his neat uglysuit.

  "But after all," Clarissa tho
ught to herself as she followed Vinrace into dinner, "_every_ _one's_ interesting really."

  When seated at the table she had some need of that assurance, chieflybecause of Ridley, who came in late, looked decidedly unkempt, and tookto 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. Withscarcely a pause Mrs. Dalloway turned to Willoughby and began:

  "What I find so tiresome about the sea is that there are no flowers init. 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 always remembered hisanswer. '_Sedgius_ _aquatici_,' he said, which I take to be a kind ofduck-weed."

  Mr. Pepper looked up sharply, and was about to put a question whenWilloughby continued:

  "They've an awful time of it--those captains! Three thousand souls onboard!"

  "Yes, indeed," said Clarissa. She turned to Helen with an air ofprofundity. "I'm convinced people are wrong when they say it's work thatwears one; it's responsibility. That's why one pays one's cook more thanone's housemaid, I suppose."

  "According to that, one ought to pay one's nurse double; but onedoesn't," said Helen.

  "No; but think what a joy to have to do with babies, instead ofsaucepans!" said Mrs. Dalloway, looking with more interest at Helen, aprobable 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 child is noresponsibility. 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 talks ofthe equality of the sexes!"

  "Does one?" said Mr. Pepper.

  "Oh, some do!" cried Clarissa. "My husband had to pass an irate ladyevery afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine."

  "She sat outside the house; it was very awkward," said Dalloway. "Atlast I plucked up courage and said to her, 'My good creature, you'reonly in the way where you are. You're hindering me, and you're doing nogood to yourself.'"

  "And then she caught him by the coat, and would have scratched his eyesout--" Mrs. Dalloway put in.

  "Pooh--that's been exaggerated," said Richard. "No, I pity them, Iconfess. 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 asfor the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave before a woman hasthe 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?" sheturned to Ridley.

  "I don't care a fig one way or t'other," said Ambrose. "If any creatureis so deluded as to think that a vote does him or her any good, let himhave 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, toMrs. Ambrose. She suddenly recollected that he had been in 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 be readin the palms of them.

  "If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull," he said, "I am boundto say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career do you consideron the whole, taking the good with the bad, the most enjoyable andenviable, not to speak of its more serious side, of all careers, for aman, I am bound to say, 'The Politician's.'"

  "The Bar or politics, I agree," said Willoughby. "You get more run foryour money."

  "All one's faculties have their play," said Richard. "I may be treadingon dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artists in generalis this: on your own lines, you can't be beaten--granted; but off yourown lines--puff--one has to make allowances. Now, I shouldn't like tothink that any one had to make allowances for me."

  "I don't quite agree, Richard," said Mrs. Dalloway. "Think of Shelley. Ifeel that there's almost everything one wants in 'Adonais.'"

  "Read 'Adonais' by all means," Richard conceded. "But whenever I hearof 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!" hesnapped.

  "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 beclumsy, 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 theirvisions--which I grant may be very beautiful--and _leave_ things in amess. Now that seems to me evading one's responsibilities. Besides, wearen't all born with the artistic faculty."

  "It's dreadful," said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, hadbeen thinking. "When I'm with artists I feel so intensely the delightsof shutting oneself up in a little world of one's own, with pictures andmusic and everything beautiful, and then I go out into the streets andthe first child I meet with its poor, hungry, dirty little face makes meturn round and say, 'No, I _can't_ shut myself up--I _won't_ live in aworld of my own. I should like to stop all the painting and writing andmusic until this kind of thing exists no longer.' Don't you feel," shewound up, addressing Helen, "that life's a perpetual conflict?" Helenconsidered for a moment. "No," she said. "I don't think I do."

  There was a pause, which was decidedly uncomfortable. Mrs. Dalloway thengave a little shiver, and asked whether she might have her fur cloakbrought to her. As she adjusted the soft brown fur about her neck afresh topic struck her.

  "I own," she said, "that I shall never forget the _Antigone_. I saw itat Cambridge years ago, and it's haunted me ever since. Don't you thinkit's quite the most modern thing you ever saw?" she asked Ridley. "Itseemed to me I'd known twenty Clytemnestras. Old Lady Ditchling for one.I don't know a word of Greek, but I could listen to it for ever--"

  Here Mr. Pepper struck up:

  {See the html (144-h) or the UTF-8 (144-0) version of this file for 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 he haddone.

  "I could teach you the alphabet in half an hour," said Ridley, "andyou'd read Homer in a month. I should think it an honour to instructyou."

  Helen, engaged with Mr. Dalloway and the habit, now fallen intodecline, of quoting Greek in the House of Commons, noted, in the greatcommonplace book that lies open beside us as we talk, the fact that allmen, even men like Ridley, really prefer women to be fashionable.

  Clarissa exclaimed that she could think of nothing more delightful. Foran instant she saw herself in her drawing-room in Browne Street with aPlato open on her knees--Plato in the original Greek. She could not helpbelieving that a real scholar, if specially interested, could slip Greekinto 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 these weredistinguished, Willoughby was ready with a bow of his h
ead to vouch forthe 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 crossing theChannel. But a choppy sea, I confess, or still worse, a swell, makes medistinctly uncomfortable. The great thing is never to miss a meal. Youlook at the food, and you say, 'I can't'; you take a mouthful, andLord knows how you're going to swallow it; but persevere, and you oftensettle the attack for good. My wife's a coward."

  They were pushing back their chairs. The ladies were hesitating at thedoorway.

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

  Rachel followed. She had taken no part in the talk; no one had spokento her; but she had listened to every word that was said. She had lookedfrom Mrs. Dalloway to Mr. Dalloway, and from Mr. Dalloway back again.Clarissa, indeed, was a fascinating spectacle. She wore a white dressand a long glittering necklace. What with her clothes, and her archdelicate face, which showed exquisitely pink beneath hair turning grey,she was astonishingly like an eighteenth-century masterpiece--a Reynoldsor a Romney. She made Helen and the others look coarse and slovenlybeside her. Sitting lightly upright she seemed to be dealing with theworld as she chose; the enormous solid globe spun round this way andthat beneath her fingers. And her husband! Mr. Dalloway rolling thatrich deliberate voice was even more impressive. He seemed to come fromthe humming oily centre of the machine where the polished rods aresliding, and the pistons thumping; he grasped things so firmly but soloosely; he made the others appear like old maids cheapening remnants.Rachel followed in the wake of the matrons, as if in a trance; a curiousscent of violets came back from Mrs. Dalloway, mingling with the softrustling of her skirts, and the tinkling of her chains. As she followed,Rachel thought with supreme self-abasement, taking in the whole courseof her life and the lives of all her friends, "She said we lived in aworld 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 score of_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 two withringed fingers upon the page.

  "And then Tristan goes like this, and Isolde--oh!--it's all toothrilling! Have you been to Bayreuth?"

  "No, I haven't," said Rachel. `"Then that's still to come. I shall neverforget my first _Parsifal_--a grilling August day, and those fat oldGerman women, come in their stuffy high frocks, and then the darktheatre, and the music beginning, and one couldn't help sobbing. A kindman went and fetched me water, I remember; and I could only cry onhis shoulder! It caught me here" (she touched her throat). "It's likenothing else in the world! But where's your piano?" "It's in anotherroom," Rachel explained.

  "But you will play to us?" Clarissa entreated. "I can't imagine anythingnicer than to sit out in the moonlight and listen to music--only thatsounds too like a schoolgirl! You know," she said, turning to Helen, "Idon'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 once when aboy or girl takes up music as a profession. Sir William Broadley told mejust the same thing. Don't you hate the kind of attitudes people go intoover Wagner--like this--" She cast her eyes to the ceiling, clasped herhands, and assumed a look of intensity. "It really doesn't mean thatthey appreciate him; in fact, I always think it's the other way round.The people who really care about an 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 notone of the greatest painters of the age. That's what I like."

  "There are a great many successful stockbrokers, if you like looking atthem," 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 andJoachim--they looked just like you and me."

  "And how much nicer they'd have looked with curls!" said Helen. "Thequestion 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 onecan'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 ofthe things that can't be said," she would have put it. She could find noanswer, but a laugh.

  "Well, anyhow," she said, turning to Rachel, "I shall insist upon yourplaying 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. Ithink I shall escape."

  A man's voice, which she took to be that of Mr. Pepper, strident indiscussion, and advancing upon the saloon, gave her the alarm.

  "Good-night--good-night!" she said. "Oh, I know my way--do pray forcalm! 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-pad onher knee. Already this cramped little cabin was the dressing room ofa lady of quality. There were bottles containing liquids; there weretrays, boxes, brushes, pins. Evidently not an inch of her person lackedits proper instrument. The scent which had intoxicated Rachel pervadedthe air. Thus established, Mrs. Dalloway began to write. A pen in herhands became a thing one caressed paper with, and she might have beenstroking 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 across queersorts as one travels. I must say I find it hugely amusing. There's themanager of the line--called Vinrace--a nice big Englishman, doesn't saymuch--you know the sort. As for the rest--they might have come trailingout of an old number of _Punch_. They're like people playing croquetin the 'sixties. How long they've all been shut up in this ship I don'tknow--years and years I should say--but one feels as though one hadboarded a little separate world, and they'd never been on shore, ordone ordinary things in their lives. It's what I've always said aboutliterary people--they're far the hardest of any to get on with. Theworst of it is, these people--a man and his wife and a niece--might havebeen, one feels, just like everybody else, if they hadn't got swallowedup by 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 woman hasquite a fine face, only she dresses, of course, in a potato sack, andwears her hair like a Liberty shopgirl's. They talk about art, and thinkus such poops for dressing in the evening. However, I can't help that;I'd rather die than come in to dinner without changing--wouldn't you? Itmatters ever so much more than the soup. (It's odd how things like that_do_ matter so much more than what's generally supposed to matter.I'd rather have my head cut off than wear flannel next the skin.) Thenthere's a nice shy girl--poor thing--I wish one could rake her outbefore it's too late. She has quite nice eyes and hair, only, of course,she'll get funny too. We ought to start a society for broadening theminds of the young--much more useful than missionaries, Hester! Oh, I'dforgotten there's a dreadful little thing called Pepper. He's just likehis name. He's indescribably insignificant, and rather queer inhis temper, poor dear. It's lik
e sitting down to dinner with anill-conditioned fox-terrier, only one can't comb him out, and sprinklehim with powder, as one would one's dog. It's a pity, sometimes, onecan't treat people like dogs! The great comfort is that we're away fromnewspapers, so that Richard will have a real holiday this time. Spainwasn't a holiday. . . .

  "You coward!" said Richard, almost filling the room with his sturdyfigure.

  "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 editsclassics."

  "Did you ever see such a set of cranks? The woman asked me if I thoughther husband looked like a gentleman!"

  "It was hard to keep the ball rolling at dinner, certainly," saidRichard. "Why is it that the women, in that class, are so much queererthan the men?"

  "They're not half bad-looking, really--only--they're so odd!"

  They both laughed, thinking of the same things, so that there was noneed to compare their impressions.

  "I see I shall have quite a lot to say to Vinrace," said Richard. "Heknows Sutton and all that set. He can tell me a good deal about theconditions 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 about the 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!" saidDalloway, for his talk had set him thinking. "I don't suppose there'sbeen 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. MyGod--what a career!"

  The chest slowly curved beneath his waistcoat.

  "D'you know, Dick, I can't help thinking of England," said his wifemeditatively, leaning her head against his chest. "Being on this shipseems to make it so much more vivid--what it really means to be English.One thinks of all we've done, and our navies, and the people in Indiaand Africa, and how we've gone on century after century, sending outboys from little country villages--and of men like you, Dick, and itmakes one feel as if one couldn't bear _not_ to be English! Think ofthe light burning over the House, Dick! When I stood on deck just now Iseemed to see it. It's what one means by London."

  "It's the continuity," said Richard sententiously. A vision of Englishhistory, King following King, Prime Minister Prime Minister, and Law Lawhad come over him while his wife spoke. He ran his mind along the lineof conservative policy, which went steadily from Lord Salisbury toAlfred, and gradually enclosed, as though it were a lasso that openedand caught things, enormous chunks of the habitable globe.

  "It's taken a long time, but we've pretty nearly done it," he said; "itremains 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 Ionly see _there_." She pressed a point on the back of his hand.

  "That's my business, as I tried to explain at dinner."

  "What I like about you, Dick," she continued, "is that you're always thesame, and I'm a creature of moods."

  "You're a pretty creature, anyhow," he said, gazing at her with deepereyes.

  "You think so, do you? Then kiss me."

  He kissed her passionately, so that her half-written letter slid to theground. 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 she has boundherself to learn the Greek alphabet. I will take this occasion of addingthat we are both enjoying ourselves in these outlandish parts, and onlywish for the presence of our friends (yourself and John, to wit) to makethe trip perfectly enjoyable as it promises to be instructive. . . .

  Voices were heard at the end of the corridor. Mrs. Ambrose was speakinglow; William Pepper was remarking in his definite and rather acid voice,"That is the type of lady with whom I find myself distinctly out ofsympathy. She--"

  But neither Richard nor Clarissa profited by the verdict, for directlyit seemed likely that they would overhear, Richard crackled a sheet ofpaper.

  "I often wonder," Clarissa mused in bed, over the little white volume ofPascal which went with her everywhere, "whether it is really good fora woman to live with a man who is morally her superior, as Richard ismine. It makes one so dependent. I suppose I feel for him what my motherand women of her generation felt for Christ. It just shows that onecan't do without _something_." She then fell into a sleep, which was asusual extremely sound and refreshing, but visited by fantastic dreamsof great Greek letters stalking round the room, when she woke up andlaughed to herself, remembering where she was and that the Greek letterswere real people, lying asleep not many yards away. Then, thinkingof the black sea outside tossing beneath the moon, she shuddered, andthought of her husband and the others as companions on the voyage.The dreams were not confined to her indeed, but went from one brainto another. They all dreamt of each other that night, as was natural,considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how strangelythey had been lifted off the earth to sit next each other in mid-ocean,and see every detail of each other's faces, and hear whatever theychanced to say.