Chapter 15 Whether two slight or two vague, the ties that bind people casually meeting in a hotel at midnight, they possess one advantage at least over the bonds which unite the elderly, who have lived together once, and so must live for ever. Slight they may be, but vivid and genuine, merely because the power to break them is within the grasp of each, and there is no reason for continuance except a true desire that continue they shall. When two people have been married for years, they seem to become unconscious of each other's bodily presence, so that they move as if alone, speak aloud things which they do not expect to be answered, and in general seem to experience all the comfort of solitude without its loneliness. The joint lives of Ridley and Helen had arrived at this stage of community, and it was often necessary for one or the other to recall with an effort whether a thing had been said or only thought, shared or dreamt in private. At four o'clock in the afternoon, two or three days later, Mrs. Ambrose was standing brushing her hair, while her husband was in the dressing-room which opened out of her room, and occasionally through the cascade of water he was washing his face, she caught exclamations. So it goes on year after year. I wish, I wish, I wish I could make an end of it, to which she paid no attention. It's white, or only brown. Thus she herself murmured, examining her hair which gleamed suspiciously among the brown. She pulled it out and laid it on the dressing-table. She was criticising her own appearance, or rather approving of it, standing a little way back from the glass, and looking at her own face with superb pride and melancholy, when her husband appeared in the doorway in his shirt-sleeves, his face half obscured by a towel. You often tell me I don't notice things, he remarked. Tell me if this is a white hair, then, she replied. She laid the hair on his hand. There's not a white hair on your head, he exclaimed. Oh, Ridley, I begin to doubt, she sighed, and bowed her head under his eye so that he might judge. But the inspection produced only a kiss where the line of parting ran, and husband and wife then proceeded to move about the room, casually murmuring. What was that you were saying, Helen remarked, after an interval of conversation which no third person could have understood. Rachel, you ought to keep an eye on Rachel, he observed significantly, and Helen, though she went on brushing her hair, looked at him. His observations were apt to be true. Young gentlemen don't interest themselves in young women's education without a motive, he remarked. Oh, Hurst, said Helen. Hurst and Hewitt, they're all the same to me, all covered with spots, he replied. He advises her to read Gibbon, did you know that? Helen did not know that, but she would not allow herself inferior to her husband in powers of observation. She merely said, nothing would surprise me. Even that dreadful flying man we met at the dance, even Mr. Dalloway, even, I advise you to be circumspect, said Risley. There's Willoughby, remember? Willoughby, he pointed at a letter. Helen looked with a sigh at the envelope which lay upon the dressing table.   If Theresa married Willoughby, she remarked, turning the page with a hairpin, one doesn't see what's to prevent Rachel, but Ridley was now off on grievances of his own, connected with the washing of his shirts, which somehow led to the frequent visits of Huiling Elliot, who was a bore, a pedant, a dry stick of a man, and yet Ridley couldn't simply point at the door and tell him to go. The truth of it was they saw too many people, and so on and so on, more conjugal talk, pattering softly and unintelligibly until they were both ready to go down to tea. The first thing that caught Helen's eye as she came downstairs was a carriage at the door, filled with skirts and feathers nodding at the tops of hats. She had only time to gain the drawing-room before two names were oddly mispronounced by the Spanish maid, and Mrs. Thornbury came in slightly in advance of Mrs. Wilfrid Flushing. Mrs. Wilfrid Flushing, said Mrs. Thornbury with a wave of her hand, a friend of our common friend, Mrs. Raymond Parry. Mrs. Flushing shook hands energetically. She was a woman of forty, perhaps, very well set up and erect, splendidly robust, though not as tall as the upright carriage of her body made her appear. She looked Helen straight in the face and said, You have a charming house. She had a strongly marked face, her eyes looked straight at you, and though naturally she was imperious in her manner, she was nervous at the same time. Mrs. Thornbury acted as interpreter, making things smooth all round by a series of charming commonplace remarks. I've taken it upon myself, Mr. Ambrose, she said, to promise that you will be so kind as to give Mrs. Flushing the benefit of your experience. I'm sure no one here knows the country as well as you do. No one takes such wonderful long walks. No one, I'm sure, has your encyclopedic knowledge upon every subject. Mr. Wilfrid Flushing is a collector. He has discovered really beautiful things already. I had no notion that the peasants were so artistic. Though, of course, in the past, not old things, new things, interrupted Mrs. Flushing curtly. That is, if he takes my advice. The Ambroses had not lived for many years in London without knowing something of a good many people, by name at least, and Helen remembered hearing of the plushings. Mr. Flushing was a man who kept an old furniture shop. He had always said he would not marry because most women have red cheeks, and would not take a house because most houses have narrow staircases, and would not eat meat because most animals bleed when they are killed, and when he had married an eccentric aristocratic lady who certainly was not pale, who looked as if she ate meat, who had forced him to do all the things he most disliked, and this then was the lady. Helen looked at her with interest. They had moved out into the garden where the tea was laid under a tree, and Mrs. Flushing was helping herself to cherry jam. She had a peculiar jerking movement of the body when she spoke, which caused the canary-coloured plume on her hat to jerk, too. Her small but finely cut and vigorous features together with the deep red of lips and cheeks, pointed to many generations of well-trained and well-nourished ancestors behind her. "'Nothing that's more than twenty years old interests me,' she continued, mouldy old pictures, dirty old books. They stick them in museums when they're only fit for burning. I quite agree,' Helen laughed, but my husband spends his life in digging up manuscripts which nobody wants. She was amused by Ridley's expression of startled disapproval. "'There's a clever man in London called John, who paints ever so much better than the old masters,' Mrs. Flushing continued, "'his pictures excite me. Nothing that's old excites me. But even his pictures will become old,' Mrs. Thornbury intervened. "'Then I'll have them burnt, or I'll put it in my will,' said Mrs. Flushing. "'And Mrs. Flushing lived in one of the most beautiful old houses in England, chillingly,' Mrs. Thornbury explained to the rest of them. "'If I'd had my way, I'd burn that to-morrow,' Mrs. Flushing laughed.  "'What does any sane person want with those great big houses?' she demanded. "'If you go downstairs after dark, you're covered with black beetles, and the electric light's always going out. "'What would you do if spiders came out of the tap when you turned on the hot water?' she demanded, fixing her eye on Helen.' Mrs. Ambrose shrugged her shoulders with a smile. "'This is what I like,' said Mrs. Flushing.  I had one once in Ireland. One could lie in bed in the morning and pick roses outside the window with one's toes. "'And the gardeners, weren't they surprised?' Mrs. Thornbury inquired. "'There were no gardeners,' Mrs. Flushing chuckled. "'Nobody but me and an old woman without any teeth. You know, the poor in Ireland lose their teeth after their twenty, but you wouldn't expect a politician to understand that, Arthur Balfour wouldn't understand that. Ridley sighed that he never expected anyone to understand anything, least of all politicians. "'However,' he concluded, there's one advantage I find in extreme old age. Nothing matters a hang except one's food and one's digestion. All I ask is to be left alone to mould her away in solitude. It's obvious that the world's going as fast as it can to the nethermost pit, and all I can do is to sit still and consume as much of my own smoke as possible.' He groaned, and with a melancholy glance laid the jam on his bread, for he felt the atmosphere of this abrupt lady distinctly unsympathetic. "'I always contradict my husband when he says that,' said Mrs. Thornbury sweetly, "'You men, where would you be if it weren't for the women?' "'Read the symposium,' said Ridley, grimly. "'Symposium?' cried Mrs. Flushing. "'That's Latin or Greek. Tell me, is there a good translation?' "'No,' said Ridley, "'you will have to learn Greek.'" Mrs. Flushing cried, "'I'd rather break stones in the road. I always envy the men who break stones and sit on those nice little heaps all day, wearing spectacles. I'd infinitely rather break stones and clean out poultry runs, or feed the cows, or...' Here Rachel came up from the lower garden with a book in her hand. "'What's that book?' said Ridley, when she had shaken hands. "'It's Gibbon,' said Rachel, as she sat down. "'The decline and fall of the Roman Empire,' said Mrs. Thornbury, a very wonderful book I know. My dear father was always quoting it at us, with the result that we resolve never to read a line.  We used to lie in bed and read Gibbon about the massacres of the Christians, I remember, when we were supposed to be asleep. It's no joke, I can tell you, reading a great big book in double columns by a nightlight, and the light that comes through a chink in the door. Then there were the moths, tiger moths, yellow moths, and horrid cotchafers. Luisa, my sister, would have the window open, and I wanted it shut. We fought every night of our lives over that window. "'Have you ever seen a moth dying in a nightlight?' she inquired. Again there was an interruption. Hewitt and Hearst appeared at the drawing-room window and came up to the tea-table. Rachel's heart beat hard. She was conscious of an extraordinary intensity in everything, as though their presence stripped some cover off the surface of things. But the greetings were remarkably commonplace. "'Excuse me,' said Hearst, rising from his chair directly he had sat down. He went into the drawing-room and returned with a cushion which he placed carefully upon his seat. Rheumatism,' he remarked as he sat down for the second time. "'The result of the dance?' Helen inquired. "'Whenever I get a tall rundown I tend to be rheumatic,' Hearst stated. He bent his wrist back sharply. I hear little pieces of chalk grinding together.' Rachel looked at him. She was amused and yet she was respectful. If such a thing could be, the upper part of her face seemed to laugh and the lower part to check its laughter. Hewitt picked up the book that lay on the ground. "'You like this?' he asked in an undertone. "'No, I don't like it,' she replied. She had indeed been trying all the afternoon to read it, and for some reason the glory which she had perceived at first had faded, and read as she would she could not grasp the meaning with her mind. "'It goes round, round, round, like a roll of oilcloth,' she hazarded. Evidently she meant Hewitt alone to hear her words, but Hearst demanded, "'What do you mean?' She was instantly ashamed for her figure of speech, for she could not explain it in words of sober criticism. "'Surely it's the most perfect style, so far as style goes, that's ever been invented,' he continued. Every sentence is practically perfect, and the wit, ugly and body repulsive in mind,' she thought, instead of thinking about Gibbon's style. "'Yes, but strong, searching, unyielding in mind.' She looked at his big head, a disproportionate part of which was occupied by the forehead, and at the direct, severe eyes. "'I give you up in despair,' he said. He meant it lightly, but she took it seriously, and believed that her value as a human being was lessened, because she did not happen to admire the style of Gibbon. The others were talking now in a group about the native villages which Mrs. Flushing ought to visit. "'I despair, too,' she said impetuously. "'How are you going to judge people merely by their minds?' "'You agree with my spin, sir, aren't I expect?' said Syngin, in his jaunty manner, which was always irritating, because it made the person he talked to appear unduly clumsy and in earnest. "'Be good, sweet maid,' I thought Mr. Kingsley and my aunt were now obsolete. "'One can be very nice without having read a book,' she asserted. Very silly and simple her words sounded, and laid her open to derision. "'Did I ever deny it?' Hurst inquired, raising his eyebrows. Most unexpectedly Mrs. Thornbury here intervened, either because it was her mission to keep things smooth, or because she had long wished to speak to Mr. Hurst, feeling as she did that young men were her sons. "'I have lived all my life with people like your aunt, Mr. Hurst,' she said, leaning forward in her chair. Her brown squirrel-like eyes became even brighter than usual. They have never heard of Gibbon. They only care for their pheasants and their peasants. They are great big men who look so fine on horseback as people must have done, I think, in the days of the great wars. Say what you like against them. They are animal. They are unintellectual. They don't read themselves, and they don't want others to read, but they are some of the finest and the kindest human beings on the face of the earth. You would be surprised at some of the stories, I could tell. You have never guessed, perhaps, at all the romances that go on in the heart of the country. There are the people, I feel, among whom Shakespeare will be born, if he is ever born again, in those old houses, up among the Downs. My aunt, Hurst interrupted, spends her life in East Lambeth, among the degraded poor. I only quoted my aunt, because she is inclined to persecute people she calls intellectual, which is what I suspect Miss Vinray's of doing. It's all the fashion now. If you're clever, it's always taken for granted that you're completely without sympathy, understanding, affection, all the things that really matter. Oh, you Christians, you're the most conceited, patronising, hypocritical, set-abolt humbugs in the kingdom. Of course, he continued, I'm the first to allow your country gentlemen great merits. For one thing they're probably quite frank about their passions, which we are not. My father, who was a clergyman in Norfolk, says that there is hardly a squire in the country who does not. But about Gibbon, Hurst interrupted. The look of nervous tension which had come over every face was relaxed by the interruption. You find him monotonous, I suppose, but you know, he opened the book and began searching for passages to read aloud, and in a little time he found a good one which he considered suitable. But there was nothing in the world that bored Ridley more than being read aloud to, and he was besides scrupulously fastidious as to the dress and behaviour of ladies. In the space of fifteen minutes he had decided against Mrs. Flushing on the ground that her orange plume did not suit her complexion, that she spoke too loud, that she crossed her legs, and finally, when he saw her accept a cigarette that Huwitt offered her, he jumped up exclaiming something about bar parlours and left them. Mrs. Flushing was evidently relieved by his departure. She puffed her cigarette, stuck her legs out, and examined Helen closely as to the character and reputation of their common friend Mrs. Raymond Parry. By a series of little stratogens she drove her to defy Mrs. Parry, as somewhat elderly, by no means beautiful, very much made up, an insolent old harridon, in short, whose parties were amusing because one met odd people.  Not that I believe what people say against her, although she hints, of course, upon which Mrs. Flushing cried out with delight, she's my first cousin.  When Mrs. Flushing rose to go, she was obviously delighted with her new acquaintances. She made three or four different plans for meeting or going on an expedition, or showing Helen the things they had bought, on her way to the carriage. She included them all in a vague but magnificent invitation. As Helen returned to the garden again, Ridley's words of warning came into her head, and she hesitated a moment and looked at Rachel sitting between Hearst and Hewitt. But she could draw no conclusions, for Hewitt was still reading Gibbon aloud, and Rachel, for all the expression she had, might have been a shell, and his words water rubbing against her ears as water rubs a shell on the edge of a rock. Hewitt's voice was very pleasant, when he reached the end of the period Hewitt stopped, and no one volunteered any criticism. I do adore the aristocracy, Hearst exclaimed after a moment's pause. They're so amazingly unscrupulous, none of us would dare to behave as that woman behaves. What I like about them, said Helen, as she sat down, is that they're so well put together, naked Mrs. Flushing will be superb. Dressed as she dresses, it's absurd, of course. Yes, said Hearst, a shade of depression crossed his face. I've never weighed more than ten stone in my life, he said, which is ridiculous considering my height, and I've actually gone down in weight since we came here. I dare say that accounts for the rheumatism. Again he jerked his wrist back sharply so that Helen might hear the grinding of the chalk stones. She could not help smiling. There's no laughing matter for me, I assure you, he protested. My mother's a chronic invalid, and I'm always expecting to be told that I've got heart disease myself. Rheumatism always goes to the heart in the end. For goodness sake, Hearst, you it protested, one might think you're an old cripple of eighty. If it comes to that, I had an aunt who died of cancer myself, but I put a bold face on it. He rose and began tilting his chair backwards and forwards on its hind legs. Is there anyone here inclined for a walk, he said? There's a magnificent walk up behind the house. You come out onto a cliff and look right down into the sea. The rocks are all red, and you can see them through the water. The other day I saw a sight that fairly took my breath away, about twenty jellyfish, semi-transparent, pink with long streamers, floating on the top of the waves. Sure they weren't mermaids, said Hearst. It's much too hot to climb uphill. He looked at Helen, who showed no signs of moving. Yes, it's too hot, Helen decided. There was a short silence. I'd like to come, said Rachel. But she might have said that anyhow, Helen thought to herself, as Hewitt and Rachel went away together, and Helen was left alone with singeon, to singeon's obvious satisfaction. He may have been satisfied, but his usual difficulty in deciding that one subject was more deserving of notice than another, prevented him from speaking for some time. He sat staring intently at the head of a dead match, while Helen considered. So it seemed from the expression of her eyes, something not closely connected with the present moment.  At Cambridge there are people to talk to. At Cambridge there are people to talk to. Helen echoed him, rhythmically and absentmindedly. Then she woke up. By the way, have you settled what you're going to do? Is it to be Cambridge or the bar? He pursed his lips, but made no immediate answer, for Helen was still slightly inattentive. She had been thinking about Rachel, and which of the two young men she was likely to fall in love with, and now sitting opposite to hers she thought, He's ugly. He's a pity they're so ugly. She did not include Hewitt in his criticism. She was thinking of the clever, honest, interesting young men she knew, of whom Hearst was a good example, and wondering whether it was necessary that thought and scholarship should thus maltreat their bodies, and should thus elevate their minds to a very high tower from which the human race appeared to them like rats and mice squirming on the flat. In the future she reflected vaguely envisaging a race of men becoming more and more like Hearst, and a race of women becoming more and more like Rachel. Oh no, she concluded, glancing at him, one wouldn't marry you. Well then, the future of the races in the hands of Susan and Arthur. No, that's dreadful. Affirm, labourers. No, not of the English at all, but of Russians and Chinese. This train of thought did not satisfy her, and was interrupted by St. John, who began again. I wish you knew Bennet, he's the greatest man in the world. Bennet, she inquired, Hearing more at ease, St. John dropped the concentrated abruptness of his manor, and explained that Bennet was a man who lived in an old windmill six miles out of Cambridge. He lived the perfect life according to St. John, very lonely, very simple, caring only for the truth of things, always ready to talk, and extra-ordinarily modest, though his mind was of the greatest. Don't you think, said St. John, when he had done describing him, That kind of thing makes this kind of thing rather flimsy. Did you notice at tea how poor old Hewitt had to change the conversation, how they were all ready to pounce upon me, because they thought I was going to say something improper? It wasn't anything, really. If Bennet had been there, he'd have said exactly what he meant to say, or he'd have got up and gone. But there's something rather bad for the character in that. I mean, if one hasn't got Bennet's character, it's inclined to make one bitter. Did you say that I was bitter? Helen did not answer, and he continued, Of course I am, disgustingly bitter, and it's a beastly thing to be. But the worst of me is, that I'm so envious, I envy everyone. I can't endure people who do things better than I do. Perfectly absurd things, too. Waiters balancing piles of plates, even Arthur, because Susan's in love with him. I want people to like me, and they don't. It's partly my appearance, I expect, he continued, though it's an absolute lie to say I've Jewish blood in me. As a matter of fact, we've been in Norfolk, Hearst of Hearstbourne Hall, for three centuries at least. It must be awfully soothing to be like you, everyone liking one at once. I assure you they don't, Helen laughed. They do, said Hearst, with conviction. In the first place, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. In the second you have an exceptionally nice nature. If Hearst had looked at her instead of looking intently at his teacup, he would have seen Helen Blush partly with pleasure, partly with an impulse of affection towards the young man who had seemed, and would seem again, so ugly and so limited. She pitted him, for she suspected that he suffered, and she was interested in him, for many of the things he said seemed to her true. She admired the morality of youth, and yet she felt imprisoned, as if her instinct were to escape to something brightly coloured and impersonal, which she could hold in her hands. She went into the house and returned with her embroidery. But he was not interested in her embroidery, he did not even look at it. About Miss Vinways, he began, Oh, look here, do let's be, singin' and Helen and Rachel and Terence. What she like, does she reason, does she feel, or is she merely a kind of footstool? Oh, no, said Helen, with great decision. From her observations at tea she was inclined to doubt whether Hearst was the person to educate Rachel. She had gradually come to be interested in her niece, and fond of her. She disliked some things about her very much, she was amused by others. But she felt her on the whole, alive if unformed human being, experimental and not always fortunate in her experiments, but with powers of some kind and a capacity for feeling. Somewhere in the depths of her too she was bound to Rachel by the indestructible if inexplicable ties of sex. She seems vague, but she's a will of her own, she said, as if in the interval she had run through her qualities. The embroidery, which was a matter of thought, the design being difficult and the colours wanting consideration, brought lapses into the dialogue when she seemed to be engrossed in her skeins of silk, or with head a little drawn back and eyes narrowed, considered the effect of the whole. Thus she merely said, erm, to singin''s next remark, I shall ask her to go for a walk with me. Perhaps he resented this division of attention. He sat silently watching Helen closely. You're absolutely happy, he proclaimed at last. Yes, Helen inquired, sticking in her needle. Marriage, I suppose, said St. John. Yes, said Helen, gently drawing her needle out. Children, St. John inquired. Yes, said Helen, sticking her needle in again. I don't know why I'm happy. She suddenly laughed, looking him full in the face. There was a considerable pause. There's an abyss between us, said St. John. His voice sounded as if it issued from the depths of a cavern in the rocks.  Women always are, of course. That's the difficulty. One never knows how a woman gets there.  Helen sat and looked at him with her needle in her hand. From her position she saw his head in front of the dark pyramid of a magnolia tree, with one foot raised on the rung of a chair, and her elbow out in the attitude for sewing. Her own figure possessed the sublimity of a woman's in the early world, spinning the thread of fate, the sublimity possessed by many women in the present day who fall into the attitude required by scrubbing or sewing. St. John looked at her. I suppose you've never paid any a compliment in the course of your life, he said, irrelevantly. I spoil riddly rather, Helen considered. I'm going to ask you point-blank. Do you like me? After a certain pause she replied, Yes, certainly, thank God, he exclaimed. That's one mercy.  What about the five philosophers, said Helen, with a laugh, stitching firmly and swiftly at her canvas? I wish you'd described them. Hurst had no particular wish to describe them, but when he began to consider them he found himself soothed and strengthened, far away to the other side of the world as they were, in smoky rooms and grey medieval courts, they appeared remarkable figures, free-spoken men with whom one could be at ease, incomparably more subtle in emotion than the people here. They gave him, certainly, what no woman could give him, not Helen even. Warming at the thought of them, he went on to lay his case before Mrs Ambrose. Should he stay on at Cambridge, or should he go to the bar? One day he thought one thing, another day another, Helen listened attentively. At last, without any preface, she pronounced her decision. Leave Cambridge and go to the bar, she said. He pressed her for her reasons. I think you'd enjoy London more, she said. It did not seem a very subtle reason, but she appeared to think it sufficient. She looked at him against the background of flowering magnolia. There was something curious in the sight. Perhaps it was that the heavy, wax-like flowers were so smooth and inarticulate, and his face—he had thrown his hat away—his hair was rumpled. He held his eyeglasses in his hand, so that a red mark appeared on either side of his nose. They were so worried and garrulous. It was a beautiful bush, spreading very widely, and all the time she had sat there talking, she had been noticing the patches of shade, and the shape of the leaves, and the way the great white flowers sat in the midst of the green. She had noticed it half-consciously, nevertheless the pattern had become part of their talk. She laid down her sewing, and began to walk up and down the garden, and hurst rose to and paced by her side. He was rather disturbed, uncomfortable, and full of thought, neither of them spoke. The sun was beginning to go down, and a change had come over the mountains, as if they were robbed of their earthly substance, and composed merely of intense blue mist. Long thin clouds of flamingo-red with edges like the edges of curled ostrich-feathers lay up and down the sky at various altitudes. The roofs of the town seemed to have sunk lower than usual. The cypresses appeared very black between the roofs, and the roofs themselves were brown and white. As usual in the evening, single cries and single bells became audible, rising from beneath. The wind stopped suddenly. Well, you must take the responsibility, he said. I've made up my mind. I shall go to the bar." His words were very serious, almost emotional. They recalled Helen after a second's hesitation. I'm sure you're right, she said warmly, and shook the hand he held out. You'll be a great man, I'm certain. Then, as if to make him look at the scene, she swept her hand round the immense circumference of the view. In the sea, over the roofs of the town, across the crests of the mountains, over the rivers and the plain, and again across the crests of the mountains, it swept, until it reached the villa, the garden, the magnolia-tree, and the figures of Hurst and herself standing together when it dropped to her side. CHAPTER XVI Hewitt and Rachel had long ago reached the particular place on the edge of a cliff, where, looking down into the sea, you might chance on jellyfish and dolphins. Looking the other way, the vast expanse of land gave them a sensation which is given by no view, however extended, in England. The villages and the hills there, having names, and the farthest horizon of hills as often as not, dipping and showing a line of mist, which is the sea. Here, the view was one of infinite sun-dried earth. Earth pointed in pinnacles, heaped in vast barriers, earth widening and spreading away and away, like the immense floor of the sea. Earth checkered by day and by night and partitioned into different lands, where famous cities were founded and the races of men changed from dark savages to white civilised men, and back to dark savages again. Perhaps their English blood made this prospect uncomfortably impersonal and hostile to them. For having once turned their faces that way, they next turned them to the sea, and for the rest of the time sat looking at the sea. The sea, though it was a thin and sparkling water here, which seemed incapable of surge or anger, eventually narrowed itself, clouded its pure tint with grey, and swelled through narrow channels, and dashed in a shiver of broken waters against massive granite rocks. It was this sea that flowed up to the mouth of the Thames, and the Thames washed the roots of the city of London. Few its thoughts had followed some such courses this, for the first thing he said as they stood on the edge of the cliff was, I'd like to be in England. Rachel lay down on her elbow and parted the tall grasses which grew on the edge, so that she might have a clear view. The water was very calm, rocking up and down at the base of the cliff, and so clear that one could see the red of the stones at the bottom of it. So it had been at the birth of the world, and so it had remained ever since. Probably no human being had ever broken that water with boat or with body. Obeying some impulse, she determined to mar that eternity of peace, and through the largest pebble she could find. It struck the water, and the ripples spread out and out. Hewitt looked down, too. It's wonderful, he said, as they widened and ceased. The freshness and the newness seemed to him wonderful. He threw a pebble next, there was scarcely any sound. But England, Rachel murmured in the absorbed tone of one whose eyes are concentrated upon some sight, what do you want with England? My friends chiefly, he said, and all the things one does. He could look at Rachel without her noticing it. She was still absorbed in the water and the exquisitely pleasant sensations which a little depth of the sea washing over rocks suggests. He noticed that she was wearing a dress of deep blue colour made of a soft, thin cotton stuff which clung to the shape of her body. It was a body with the angles and the hollows of a young woman's body not yet developed, but in no way distorted. And thus interesting and even lovable.  As she looked down into the sea her lips were slightly parted. The expression was one of childlike intentness as if she were watching for a fish to swim past over the clear red rocks. Nevertheless her twenty-four years of life had given her a look of reserve. Her hand which lay on the ground, the fingers curling slightly in, was well shaped and competent. The square tipped and nervous fingers were the fingers of a musician. With something like anguish Hewitt realised that far from being unattractive her body was very attractive to him. She looked up suddenly. Her eyes were full of eagerness and interest. You write novels, she asked. For the moment he could not think what he was saying. He was overcome with the desire to hold her in his arms. Oh yes, he said, that is, I want to write them.  Novels, she repeated, why do you write novels? You ought to write music. Music you see.  Music goes straight for things. It says all there is to say at once. With writing it seems to me there's so much. She paused for an expression and rubbed her fingers in the earth, scratching on the matchbox. Most of the time when I was reading Gibbon this afternoon I was horribly, oh, infernally, damnably bored. She gave a shake of laughter, looking at Hewitt, who laughed too. I shan't lend you books, he remarked. Why is it, Rachel continued, that I can laugh at Mr. Hurst to you, but not to his face, and tea I was completely overwhelmed, not by his ugliness, by his mind. She enclosed a circle in the air with her hands. She realised with a great sense of comfort how easily she could talk to Hewitt. Those thorns or ragged corners which tear the surface of some relationships being smoothed away. So I observed, said Hewitt, that's a thing that never ceases to amaze me. He had recovered his composure to such an extent that he could light and smoke a cigarette, and feeling her ease became happy and easy himself. The respect that women, even well-educated, very able women have for men, he went on. I believe we must have the sort of power over you that we're said to have over horses. They see us three times as big as we are, or they'd never obey us. For that very reason I'm inclined to doubt that you'll ever do anything, even when you have the vote. He looked at her reflectively. She appeared very smooth and sensitive and young. It'll take at least six generations before you're sufficiently thick-skinned to go into law courts and business offices. Consider what a bully the ordinary man is, he continued, the ordinary, hard-working, rather ambitious solicitor or man of business with a family to bring up, and a certain position to maintain. And then, of course, the daughters have to give way to the sons. The sons have to be educated. They have to bully and shove for their wives and families. And so it all comes over again, and meanwhile there are the women in the background. Do you really think that the vote will do you any good? The vote? Rachel repeated. She had to visualise it as a little bit of paper which she dropped into a box before she understood his question. And looking at each other they smiled at something absurd in the question. Not to me, she said, but I play the piano. I meant really like that, she asked, returning to the question that interested her. I'm not afraid of you. She looked at him easily. No, I'm different, hewitt replied. I've got between six and seven hundred a year of my own, and then no one takes a novelist seriously, thank heavens. There's no doubt it helps to make up for the drudgery of a profession if a man's taken very, very seriously by everyone, if he gets appointments and has offices and a title and lots of letters after his name and bits of ribbon and degrees. I don't begrudge it, though sometimes it comes over me. What an amazing concoction. What a miracle the masculine conception of life is. Judges, civil servants, army, navy, houses of parliament, Lord Mayor's. What a world we've made of it. Look at herse now. I assure you, he said, not a day's path since we came here without a discussion as to whether he's to stay on at Cambridge or to go to the bar. It's his career, his sacred career, and if I've heard it twenty times, I'm sure his mother and sister have heard it five hundred times. Can't we imagine the family conclaves and the sister told to run out and feed the rabbits, because Syngin must have the schoolroom to himself? Syngin's working, Syngin wants his tea brought to him. Don't you know the kind of thing? No wonder that Syngin thinks it a matter of considerable importance. It is, too. He has to earn his living. But Syngin's sister, Ewitt puffed in silence. No one takes her seriously, poor dear. She feeds the rabbits. Yes, said Rachel, I've fed rabbits for twenty-four years, and it seems odd now. She looked meditative, and Ewitt, who had been talking much at random and instinctively adopting the feminine point of view, saw that she would now talk about herself, which was what he wanted, for so they might come to know each other.  How do you spend your day? He asked. She meditated still. When she thought of their day, it seemed to her it was cut into four pieces by their meals. These divisions were absolutely rigid, the contents of the day having to accommodate themselves within the four rigid bars.  Breakfast nine, luncheon one, tea five, dinner eight, she said. Well, said Ewitt, what you do in the morning?  And after luncheon? Then I went shopping with one of my aunts, or we went to see someone, or we took a message, or we did something that had to be done. The taps might be leaking. They visit the poor a good deal, old charwomen with bad legs, women who want tickets for hospitals, or I used to walk in the park by myself, and after tea people sometimes called, or in summer we sat in the garden or played croquet. In winter I read aloud while they worked. After dinner I played the piano and they wrote letters. If father was at home we had friends of his to dinner, and about once a month we went up to the play. Every now and then we dined out. Sometimes I went to a dance in London but that was difficult because of getting back. The people we saw were old family friends and relations but we didn't see many people. There was the clergyman, Mr Pepper, and the hunts. Father generally wanted to be quiet when he came home because he works very hard at Hull. Also my aunts aren't very strong. A house takes up a lot of time if you do it properly. Our servants are always bad and so Aunt Lucy used to do a good deal in the kitchen and Aunt Clara I think spent most of the morning dusting the drawing room and going through the linen and silver. Then there were the dogs. They had to be exercised, besides being washed and brushed. Now Sandy's dead but Aunt Clara has a very old cockatoo that came from India. Everything in our house, she exclaimed, comes from somewhere. It's full of old furniture, not really old, Victorian, things mother's family had or father's family had, which they didn't like to get rid of I suppose, though we've really no room for them. It's rather a nice house, she continued, except that it's a little dingy, dull I should say. She called up before her eyes a vision of the drawing room at home. It was a large oblong room, with a square window opening on the garden. Green plush chairs stood against the wall. There was a heavy carved book case, with glass doors and a general impression of faded sofa covers, large spaces of pale green, and baskets with pieces of woodwork dropping out of them. Photographs from old Italian masterpieces hung on the walls, and views of Venetian bridges and Swedish waterfalls which members of the family had seen years ago. There were also one or two portraits of fathers and grandmothers and an engraving of John Stuart Mill after the picture by Watts. It was a room without definite character, being neither typically and openly hideous, nor strenuously artistic, nor really comfortable. Rachel roused herself from the contemplation of this familiar picture. But this isn't very interesting for you, she said looking up. Good Lord! Hewitt exclaimed, I've never been so much interested in my life. She then realised that while she had been thinking of Richmond, his eyes had never left her face. The knowledge of this excited her.  Let's imagine it's a Wednesday, you're all at luncheon.  He arranged three pebbles on the grass between them. Aunt Clara carves the neck of lamb, Rachel continued. She fixed her gaze upon the pebbles.  Then there's Blanche, the maid, who snuffles because of her nose. We talk. Oh yes, it's Aunt Lucy's afternoon at Woolworth, so we're rather quick over luncheon.   Aunt Clara has what they call a GFS meeting in the drawing-room on Wednesday, so I take the dogs out. I go up Richmond Hill, along the terrace, into the park. It's the 18th of April, the same day as it is here. It's spring in England. The ground is rather damp. However, I cross the road and get onto the grass, and we walk along, and I sing, as I always do, when I'm alone, until we come to the open space where you can see the whole of London beneath you on a clear day. Hampstead Church, Spire there, Westminster Cathedral over there, and factory chimneys about here. There's generally a haze over the low parts of London, but it's often blue over the park when London's in a mist. It's the open place that the balloons cross going over to Hurlingham. They're pale or yellow. Well, then, it smells very good, particularly if they happen to be burning wood in a keeper's lodge, which is there. I could tell you now how to get from place to place and exactly what trees you'll pass and where you'd cross the roads. You see, I played there when I was small. Spring is good, but it's best in the autumn when the deer are barking. Then it gets dusky, and I go back through the trees, and you can't see people properly. They come past very quick. You just see their faces, and then they're gone. That's what I like, and no one knows in the least what you're doing. But you have to be back for tea, I suppose. Hewitt checked her. Tea? Oh, yes, five o'clock. Then I say what I've done, and my aunt say what they've done, and perhaps someone comes in. Mrs. Hunt, let's suppose. She's an old lady with a lame leg. She has, or she once had, eight children, so we ask after them. They're all over the world, so we ask where they are, and sometimes they're ill, or they're stationed in a cholera district, or in some place where it only rains once in five months. Mrs.  Here she stopped and looked at Hewitt to see whether he was amused by the same things that amused her. She was reassured, but she thought it necessary to apologise again. She had been talking too much. You can't conceive how it interests me, he said. Indeed, his cigarette had gone out, and he had to light another. Why does it interest you? She asked.  When he said this, Rachel, who had become oblivious of anything, and had reverted to a childlike state of interest and pleasure, lost her freedom and became self-conscious. She felt herself at once singular and under observation, as she felt with singe and hearse. She was about to launch into an argument which would have made them both feel bitterly against each other, and to define sensations which had no such importance as words were bound to give them when Hewitt led her thoughts in a different direction. I've often walked along the streets where people live all in a row, and one house is exactly like another house, and wondered what on earth the women were doing inside, he said. Just consider, it's the beginning of the 20th century, and until a few years ago no woman had ever come out by herself and said things at all. There it was going on in the background, for all those thousands of years this curious, silent, unrepresented life. Of course we're always writing about women, abusing them, or jeering at them, or worshipping them. But it's never come from women themselves, I believe we still don't know in the least how they live, or what they feel, or what they do precisely. If one's a man, the only confidences one gets are from young women about their love affairs. But the lives of women of 40, of unmarried women, of working women, of women who keep shops and bring up children, of women like your aunts, or Mrs. Thornbury, or Ms. Allen. One knows nothing whatever about them, they won't tell you, either they're afraid, or they've got a way of treating men. It's the man's view that's represented you see, think of a railway train, 15 carriages for men who'd want to smoke. Doesn't it make your blood boil?  Don't you think it all a great humbug?  His determination to know, while it gave meaning to their talk, hampered her. He seemed to press further and further and made it appear so important. She took some time to answer and during that time she went over and over the course of her 24 years, lighting now on one point, now on another, on her aunts, her father, and at last her mind fixed upon her aunts and her father, and she tried to describe them, as at this distance they appeared to her. They were very much afraid of her father. He was a great dim force in the house, by means of which they held on, to the great world which is represented every morning in the times. But the real life of the house was something quite different from this. It went on independently of Mr. Vinry's and tended to hide itself from him. He was good-humoured towards them, but contemptuous. She had always taken it for granted that his point of view was just and founded upon an ideal scale of things, where the life of one person was absolutely more important than the life of another, and that in that scale they were much less important than he was. But did she really believe that? Shewitt's words made her think. She always submitted to her father, just as they did, but it was her aunts who influenced her really, her aunts who built up the fine, closely woven substance of their life at home. They were less splendid, but more natural than her father was. All her rages had been against them. It was their world, with its four meals, its punctuality and servants on the stairs at half-past ten, that she examined so closely and wanted so vehemently to smash to atoms. Following these thoughts, she looked up and said, And there's a sort of beauty in it. There they are at Richmond, at this very moment building things up. They're all wrong, perhaps, but there's a sort of beauty in it, she repeated. It's so unconscious, so modest, and yet they feel things. They do mind if people die. Odd spinsters are always doing things. I don't quite know what they do. Only that was what I felt when I lived with them. It was very real. She reviewed their little journeys to and fro, to Woolworth, to char women with bad legs, to meetings for this and that. Their minute acts of charity and unselfishness which flowered punctually from a definite view of what they ought to do. Their friendships, their tastes and habits. She saw all these things like grains of falling sand, falling through innumerable delays, making an atmosphere and building up a solid mass of a background. He would observe her as she considered this. Were you happy, he demanded. Again she had become absorbed in something else and he called her back to an unusually vivid consciousness of herself. I was both, she replied. I was happy and I was miserable. You have no conception what it's like to be a young woman. She looked straight at him. There are terrors and agonies, she said, keeping her eye on him as if to detect the slightest hint of laughter. I can believe it, he said. He returned her look with perfect sincerity. Women one sees in the street, she said, prostitutes.  You were never told.  Here came in the great space of life into which no one had ever penetrated. All that she had been saying about her father and her aunts and walks in Richmond Park and what they did from hour to hour was merely on the surface. Hewitt was watching her. Did he demand that she should describe that also? Why did he sit so near and keep his eye on her? Why did they not have done with this searching and agony? Why did they not kiss each other simply?  A girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she does. Nothing's expected of her. Unless one's very pretty, people don't listen to what you say. That is what I like, she added energetically, as if the memory were very happy. I like walking in Richmond Park and singing to myself and knowing it doesn't matter a damn to anybody. I like seeing things on as we saw you that night when you didn't see us. I love the freedom of it. It's like being the wind or the sea. She turned with a curious fling of her hands and looked at the sea. It was still very blue, dancing away as far as the eye could reach. But the light on it was yellower and the clouds were turning flamingo red. A feeling of intense depression crossed to its mind as she spoke. It seemed plain that she would never care for one person rather than another. She was evidently quite indifferent to him. They seemed to come very near and then they were as far apart as ever again and her gesture as she turned away had been oddly beautiful. Nonsense, he said abruptly. You like people, you like admiration.  She made no answer for some time. Then she said, that's probably true. Of course I like people. I like almost everyone I've ever met. She turned her back on the sea and regarded you it with friendly, if critical eyes. He was good-looking in the sense that he had always had a sufficiency of beef to eat and fresh air to breathe. His head was big. The eyes were also large, though generally vague. They could be forcible and the lips were sensitive. One might account him a man of considerable passion and fitful energy, likely to be at the mercy of moods which had little relation to fans at once tolerant and fastidious. The breadth of his forehead showed capacity for thought. The interest with which Rachel looked at him was heard in her voice. What novels do you write? she asked. I want to write a novel about silence, he said. The things people don't say. But the difficulty is immense, he said. However, you don't care, he continued. He looked at her almost severely. Nobody cares. All you read a novel for is to see what sort of person the writer is. And if you know him, which of his friends he's put in, as for the novel itself, the whole conception, the way one's seen the thing, felt about it, make it stand in relation to other things. Not one in a million cares for that. And yet I sometimes wonder whether there's anything else in the whole world worth doing. These other people, he indicated the hotel, are always wanting something they can't get. But there's an extraordinary satisfaction in writing, even in the attempt to write. What you said just now is true. One doesn't want to be things. One wants merely to be allowed to see them. Some of the satisfaction of which he spoke came into his face as he gazed out to see. It was Rachel's turn now to feel depressed, as he talked of writing he had become suddenly impersonal. He might never care for anyone, or that desire to know her and get at her, which he had felt pressing on her almost painfully, had completely vanished. Are you a good writer? She asked. Yes, he said. I'm not first rate, of course, I'm good second rate, about as good as Thackeray, I should say. Rachel was amazed. For one thing it amazed her to hear Thackeray called second rate, and then she could not widen her point of view to believe that there could be great writers in existence at the present day, or if there were, that anyone she knew could be a great writer, and his self-confidence astounded her, and he became more and more remote. My other novel, Hewitt continued, is about a young man who is obsessed by an idea, the idea of being a gentleman. He manages to exist at Cambridge on 100 pounds a year. He has a coat, it was once a very good coat, but the trousers, they're not so good. Well, he goes up to London, gets into good society, owing to an early morning adventure on the banks of the Serpentine. He is led into telling lies. My idea, you see, is to show the gradual corruption of the soul, calls himself the son of some great landy proprietor in Devonshire. Meanwhile, the coach becomes older and older, and he hardly dares to wear the trousers. Can't you imagine the wretched man after some splendid evening of debauchery, contemplating these garments, hanging them over the end of the bed, arranging them now in full light, now in shade, and wondering whether they will survive him or he will survive them? Thoughts of suicide cross his mind. He has a friend too, a man who somehow subsists upon selling small birds, for which he sets traps in the fields near Uxbridge. There's scholars, both of them. I know one or two wretched, starving creatures like that, who quote Aristotle at you, over a fried herring and a pint of porter, fashionable life too. I have to represent at some length in order to show my hero under all circumstances. Lady Theo Bingham Bingley, whose bay mare he had the good fortune to stop, is the daughter of a very fine old Tory peer. I'm going to describe the kind of parties I once went to, the fashionable intellectuals you know, who like to have the latest book on their tables. They give parties, river parties, parties where you play games. There's no difficulty in conceiving incidents. The difficulty is to put them into shape, not to get run away with as Lady Theo was. It ended disastrously for her poor woman, for the book as I planned it was going to end in profound and sordid respectability. Dissowned by her father, she marries my hero, and they live in a snug little villa outside Croydon, in which town he is set up as a house agent. He never succeeds in becoming a real gentleman after all. That's the interesting part of it. Does it seem to you the kind of book you'd like to read, he inquired, or perhaps you'd like my steward tragedy better? He continued without waiting for her to answer him. My idea is that there's a certain quality of beauty in the past, which the ordinary historical novelist completely ruins by his absurd conventions. The moon becomes the regent of the skies, people clasps spurs to their horses and so on. I'm going to treat people as though they were exactly the same as we are. The advantages that detach from modern conditions, one can make them more intense and more abstract than people who live as we do. Rachel had listened to all this with attention, but with a certain amount of bewilderment. They both sat thinking their own thoughts. I'm not like Hurst, said Hewitt, after a pause. He spoke meditatively. I don't see circles of chalk between people's feet. I sometimes wish I did. It seems to me so tremendously complicated and confused. One can't come to any decision at all. One's less and less capable of making judgments. Do you find that? And then one never knows what anyone feels. We're all in the dark. We try to find out. But can you imagine anything more ludicrous than one person's opinion of another person? One goes along thinking one knows, but one really doesn't know. As he said this, he was leaning on his elbow, arranging and rearranging in the grass the stones which had represented Rachel and her aunts at luncheon. He was speaking as much to himself as to Rachel. He was reasoning against the desire which had returned with intensity to take her in his arms, to have done with indirectness, to explain exactly what he felt. What he said was against his belief or the things that were important about her he knew. He felt them in the air around them, but he said nothing. He went on arranging the stones.  Do you like me? Rachel suddenly observed.  Although it replied, speaking with the relief of a person who is unexpectedly given an opportunity of saying what he wants to say. He stopped moving the pebbles. Mightn't we call each other Rachel and Terrence, he asked. Terrence, Rachel repeated. Terrence, that's like the cry of an owl. She looked up with a sudden rush of delight and in looking at Terrence with eyes widened by pleasure, she was struck by the change that had come over the sky behind them. The substantial blue day had faded to a paler and more ethereal blue. The clouds were pink, far away and closely packed together. And the piece of evening had replaced the heat of the sudden afternoon in which they had started on their walk. It must be late, she exclaimed. It was nearly eight o'clock. But eight o'clock doesn't count here, does it? Terrence asked as they got up and turned inland again. They began to walk rather quickly down the hill on a little path between the olive trees. They felt more intimate because they shared the knowledge of what eight o'clock enrichment meant. Terrence walked in front for there was not room for them side by side. What I want to do in writing novels is very much what you want to do when you play the piano, I expect. He began, turning and speaking over his shoulder. We want to find out what's behind things, don't we? Look at the lights down there, he continued. Scattered about anyhow. Things I feel come to me like lights. I want to combine them. Have you ever seen fireworks that make figures? I want to make figures. Is that what you want to do? Now they were out on the road and can walk side by side. When I play the piano, music is different, but I see what you mean. They tried to invent theories and to make their theories agree. As Hewitt had no knowledge of music, Rachel took his stick and drew figures in the thin white dust to explain how Bach wrote his fugues. My musical gift was ruined, he explained as they walked on after one of these demonstrations by the village organist at home who had invented a system of notation which he tried to teach me with the result that I never got to the tune playing at all. My mother thought music wasn't manly for boys.  That's the worst of living in the country. We live in Devonshire. It's the loveliest place in the world. It's always difficult at home when one's grown up. I'd like you to know one of my sisters. Oh, here's your gate. He pushed it open. They paused for a moment. She could not ask him to come in. She could not say that she hoped they would meet again. There was nothing to be said and so without a word she went through the gate and was soon invisible. Directly who it lost sight of her he felt the old discomfort return even more strongly than before. Their talk had been interrupted in the middle just as he was beginning to say the things he wanted to say. After all, what had they been able to say? He ran his mind over the things they had said, the random unnecessary things which had edded round and round and used up all the time and drawn them so closely together and flung them so far apart and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of what she felt and of what she was like. What was the use of talking, talking, merely talking? End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17. It was now the height of the season and every ship that came from England left a few people on the shores of Santa Marina who drove up to the hotel. The fact that the Ambroses had a house where everyone could escape momentarily from the slightly inhuman atmosphere of an hotel was a source of genuine pleasure not only to Hearst and Hewitt but to the Elliotts, the Thornbrues, the Flushings, Miss Allen, Evelyn M. Together with other people whose identity was so little developed that the Ambroses did not discover that they possessed names. By degrees there was established a kind of correspondence between the two houses, the big and the small so that at most hours of the day one house could guess what was going on in the other and the words the villa and the hotel called up the idea of two separate systems of life. Acquaintances showed signs of developing into friends for that one tie to Mrs. Parry's drawing room had inevitably split into many other ties attached to different parts of England and sometimes these alliances seemed cynically fragile and sometimes painfully acute lacking as they did the supporting background of an organised English life. One night when the moon was round between the trees Evelyn M. told Helen the story of her life and claimed her everlasting friendship. On another occasion merely because of a sigh or a pause or a word thoughtlessly dropped poor Mrs. Elliot left the villa half in tears vowing never again to meet the cold and scornful woman who had insulted her and in truth meet again they never did. It did not seem worthwhile to piece together so slight a friendship. Hewitt indeed might have found excellent material at this time up at the villa for some chapters in the novel which was to be called silence or the things people don't say. Helen and Rachel had become very silent having detected as she thought a secret and judging that Rachel meant to keep it from her Mrs. Ambrose respected it carefully but from that cause though unintentionally a curious atmosphere of reserve grew up between them. Instead of sharing their views upon all subjects and plunging after an idea wherever it might lead they spoke chiefly in comment upon the people they saw and the secret between them made itself felt in what they said even of Thornbrews and Elliot's. Always calm and unemotional in her judgments Mrs. Ambrose was now inclined to be definitely pessimistic. She was not severe upon individuals so much as incredulous as to the kindness of destiny, fate, what happens in the long run and apt to insist that this was genuinely adverse to people in proportion as they deserved well. Even this theory she was ready to discard in favor of one which made chaos triumphant things happening for no reason at all and everyone groping about in illusion and ignorance. With a certain pleasure she developed these views to her niece taking a letter from home as her test which gave good news but might just as well have given bad. How did she know that at this very moment both her children were not lying dead crushed by motor omnibuses? It's happening to somebody, why shouldn't it happen to me? She would argue. Her face taking on the historical expression of anticipated sorrow. However sincere these views may have been they were undoubtedly called forth by the irrational state of her niece's mind. It was so fluctuating and went so quickly from joy to despair that it seemed necessary to confront it with some stable opinion which naturally became dark as well as stable. Perhaps Mrs. Ambrose had some idea that in leading the talk into these quarters she might discover what was in Rachel's mind but it was difficult to judge for sometimes she would agree with the gloomiest thing that was said and other times she refused to listen and rammed Helen's theories down her throat with laughter, chatter, ridicule of the wildest and fierce bursts of anger even at what she called the croaking of a raven in the mud. It's hard enough without that, she asserted. What's hard Helen demanded. Life, she replied, and then they both became silent. Helen might draw her own conclusions as to why life was hard, as to why an hour later perhaps life was something so wonderful and vivid that the eyes of Rachel beholding it were positively exhilarating to a spectator. True to her creed she did not attempt to interfere although there were enough of those weak moments of depression to make it perfectly easy for a less scrupulous person to press through and know all and perhaps Rachel was sorry that she did not choose. All these moods ran themselves into one general effect which Helen compared to the sliding of a river quick, quicker, quicker still as it races to a waterfall. Her instinct was to cry out stop but even had there been any use in crying stop she would have refrained thinking it best that things should take their way the water racing because the earth was shaped to make it race. It seemed that Rachel herself had no suspicion that she was watched or that there was anything in her manner likely to draw attention to her. What had happened to her she did not know. Her mind was very much in the condition of the racing water to which Helen compared it. She wanted to see Terence. She was perpetually wishing to see him when he was not there. It was an agony to miss seeing him. Agonies were strewn all about her day on account of him. But she never asked herself what this force driving through her life arose from. She thought of no result any more than a tree perpetually pressed downwards by the wind considers the result of being pressed downwards by the wind. During the two or three weeks which had passed since their walk half a dozen notes from him had accumulated in her drawer. She would read them and spent the whole morning in a days of happiness. The sunny land outside the window being no less capable of analysing its own colour and heat than she was of analysing hers. In these moods she found it impossible to read or play the piano even to move being beyond her inclination. The time passed without her noticing it. When it was dark she was drawn to the window by the lights of the hotel. A light that went in and out was the light in Terence's window. There he sat, reading perhaps, or now he was walking up and down pulling out one book after another and now he was seated in his chair again and she tried to imagine what he was thinking about. The steady lights marked the rooms where Terence sat with people moving round him. Everyone who stayed at the hotel had a peculiar romance and interest about them. They were not ordinary people. She would attribute wisdom to Mrs. Elliot and beauty to Susan Warrington, a splendid vitality to Evelyn M. because Terence spoke to them as unreflecting and pervasive were the moods of depression. Her mind was as the landscape outside when dark beneath clouds and straightly lashed by wind inhaled.  Best of all were the moods went for no reason. Again this stress of feeling slackened and life went on as usual only with a joy and colour in its events that was unknown before. They had a significance like that which she had seen in the tree. The nights were black bars separating her from the days. She would have liked to run all the days for one long continuity of sensation. Although these moods were directly or indirectly caused by the presence of Terence or the thought of him, she never said to herself that she was in love with him or considered what was to happen if she continued to feel such things so that Helen's image of the river sliding onto the waterfall had great likeness to the facts and the alarm which Helen sometimes felt was justified. In her curious condition of unanalyzed sensation she was incapable of making a plan which should have any effect upon her state of mind. She abandoned herself to the mercy of accidents. Missing Terence one day, meeting him the next, receiving his letters always with a start of surprise. Any woman experienced in the progress of courtship would have come by certain opinions from all this which would have given her at least a theory to go upon. But no one had ever been in love with Rachel and she had never been in love with anyone. Moreover, none of the books she read from Wuthering Heights to Man and Superman and the plays of Ibsen suggested from their analysis of love that what their heroines felt was what she was feeling now. It seemed to her that her sensations had no name. She met Terence frequently. When they did not meet he was apt to send a note with a book or about a book but he had not been able after all to neglect that approach to intimacy. But sometimes he did not come or did not write for several days at a time. Again, when they met their meeting might be one of inspiring joy or harassing despair. Overall, their partings hung the sense of interruption leaving them both unsatisfied though ignorant that the other shared the feeling.  At first he moved as a God and she came to know him better he was still the centre of light but combined with this beauty a wonderful power of making her daring and confident of herself. She was conscious of emotions and powers which she had never suspected in herself and of a depth in the world hitherto unknown. When she thought of their relationship she saw rather than reasoned representing her view of what Terrence felt by a picture of him drawn across the room to stand by her side. This passage across the room amounted to a physical sensation but what it meant she did not know. Thus the time went on wearing a calm bright look upon its surface letters came from England letters came from Willoughby and the days accumulated their small events which shaped the year. Superficially three o's of Pindal were mended. Helen covered about five inches of her embroidery and Syngin completed the first two acts of a play. He and Rachel being now very good friends he read them aloud to her and she was so genuinely impressed by the skill of his rhythms and the variety of his adjectives as well as by the fact that he was Terrence's friend that he began to wonder whether he was not intended for literature rather than for law. It was a time of profound thought and sudden revelations for more than one couple and several single people. A Sunday came which no one in the villa with the exception of Rachel and the Spanish maid proposed to recognize. Rachel still went to church because she had never, according to Helen, taken the trouble to think about it. Since they had celebrated the service at the hotel she went there expecting to get some pleasure from her passage across the garden and through the hall of the hotel although it was very doubtful whether she would see Terrence or at any rate have the chance of speaking to him. As the greater number of visitors at the hotel were English there was almost as much difference between Sunday and Wednesday as there was in England and Sunday appeared here as there the mute black ghost or penitent spirit of the busy weekday. The English could not pale the sunshine but they could in some miraculous ways slow down the hours, dull the incidents, lengthen the meals and make even the servants and page boys wear a look of boredom and propriety. The best clothes which everyone put on helped the general effect. It seemed that no lady could sit down without bending a clean starched petticoat and no gentleman could breathe without a sudden crackle from a stiff shirt front. As the hands of the clock, near eleven on this particular Sunday various people tended to draw together in the hall clasping little red-leaved books in their hands. The clock marked a few minutes to the hour when a stout black figure passed through the hall with a preoccupied expression as though he would rather not recognise salutations although aware of them and disappeared down the corridor which led from it. Mr. Bax, Mrs. Stormbury, whispered. A little group of people then began to move off in the same direction as the stout black figure. Looked at in an odd way by people who made no effort to join them they moved with one exception slowly and conspicuously towards the stairs. Mrs. Flushing was the exception. She came running downstairs strode across the hall joined the procession much out of breath demanding of Mrs. Stormbury in an agitated whisper Where? Where? We are all going, said Mrs. Stormbury gently and soon they were descending the stairs two by two. Rachel was among the first to descend. She did not see that Terrence and Hearst came in at the rear possessed of no black volume but of one thin book bound in light blue cloth which Stingian carried under his arm. The chapel was the old chapel of the monks. It was a profound cool place where they had set mass for hundreds of years and done penance in the cold moonlight and worshipped old round pictures and carved saints which stood with upraised hands of blessing in the hollows in the walls. The transition from Catholic to Protestant worship had been bridged by a time of disuse when there were no services and the place was used for storing jars of oil, liqueur and dead chairs. The hotel flourishing some religious body had taken the place in hand and it was now fitted out with a number of glazed yellow benches claret-coloured footstores. It had a small pulpit and a brass eagle carrying the Bible on its back while the piety of different women had supplied ugly squares of carpet and long strips of embroidery heavily wrought with monograms in gold. As the congregation entered they were met by mild-sweet chords issuing from a harmonium where Miss Willet, concealed from view by a base curtain, struck emphatic chords with uncertain fingers. The sound spread through the chapel as the rings of water spread from a fallen stone. The twenty or twenty-five people who composed the congregation first bowed their heads and then sat up and looked about them. It was very quiet and the light down here seemed paler than the light above. The usual bows and smiles were dispensed with but they recognized each other. The Lord's prayer was read over them. As the child-like battle of voices rose the congregation, many of whom had only met on the staircase felt themselves pathetically united and well disposed towards each other. As if the prayer were a torch applied to fuel a smoke seemed to rise automatically and fill the place with the ghosts of innumerable services on innumerable Sunday mornings at home. Susan Warrington in particular was conscious of the sweetest sense of sisterhood as she covered her face with her hands and saw slips of bent backs through the chinks between her fingers. Her emotions rose calmly and evenly approving of herself and of life at the same time. It was all so quiet and so good but having created this peaceful atmosphere Mr. Back suddenly turned the page and read a psalm. Though he read it with no change of voice the mood was broken. Be merciful unto me, O God! he read for man goeth about to devour me he is daily fighting and troubling me they daily mistake my words all that they imagine is to do me evil they hold all together and keep themselves close break their teeth, O God, in their mouths smite the jawbones of the lions, O Lord let them fall away like water that runneth apace and when they shoot their arrows let them be rooted out. Nothing in Susan's experience at all corresponded with this and as she had no love of language she had long ceased to attend to such remarks. Although she followed them with a kind of mechanical respect with which she heard many of Lear's speeches read aloud her mind was still serene and really occupied with praise of her own nature and praise of God that is of the solemn and satisfactory order of the world. But it could be seen from a glance at their faces that most of the others the men in particular felt the inconvenience of the sudden intrusion of this old savage. They looked more secular and critical in the ravings of the old black man with a cloth round his loins cursing with a vehement gesture by a campfire in the desert. After that there was a general sound of pages being turned as if they were in class and then they read a little bit of the Old Testament about making a well very much as schoolboys translate an easy passage from the Anabasis when they have shut up their French grammar. Then they returned to the New Testament in the sad and beautiful figure of Christ. While Christ spoke they made another effort to fit his interpretation of life upon the lives they lived but as they were all very different some practical, some ambitious, some stupid, some wild and experimental, some in love and others long past any feeling except a feeling of comfort they did very different things with the words of Christ. From their faces it seemed that for the most part they made no effort at all and recumbent as it were accepted the ideas the words gave as representing goodness in the same way no doubt as one of those industrious needle-women had accepted the bright ugly pattern on her mat as beauty. Whatever the reason might be for the first time in her life instead of slipping at once into some curious, pleasant cloud of emotion too familiar to be considered Rachel listened critically to what was being said by the time they had swung in an irregular way from prayer to psalm from psalm to history from history to poetry and Mr. Bax was giving out his text she was in a state of acute discomfort such was the discomfort she felt when forced to sit through an unsatisfactory piece of music badly played tantalised, enraged by the clumsy insensitiveness of the conductor who put the stress on the wrong places and annoyed by the vast flock of the audience tamely praising and acquiescing without knowing or caring so she was not tantalised and enraged only here, with eyes half shut and lips pursed together the atmosphere of forced solemnity increased her anger all round her were people pretending to feel what they did not feel while somewhere above her floated the idea which they could none of them grasp which they pretended to grasp always escaping out of reach a beautiful idea an idea like a butterfly one after another vast and hard and cold appeared to her the churches all over the world where this blundering effort and misunderstanding were perpetually going on great buildings filled with innumerable men and women clearly who finally gave up the effort to see and relapsed tamely into praise and acquiescence half shutting their eyes and pursing up their lips the thought had the same sort of physical discomfort as is caused by a film of mist always coming between the eyes and the printed page she did her best to brush away the film and to conceive something to be worshipped as the service went on but failed was always misled by the voice of Mr. Bach saying things which misrepresented the idea and by the patter of barring inexpressive human voices falling round her like damp leaves the effort was tiring and dispiriting she ceased to listen and fixed her eyes on the face of a woman near her a hospital nurse whose expression of devout attention seemed to prove that she was at any rate receiving satisfaction but looking at her carefully she came to the conclusion that the hospital nurse was only slavishly acquiescent and that the look of satisfaction was produced by no splendid conception of God within her how indeed could she conceive anything far outside her own experience a woman with a commonplace face like hers a little round red face upon which trivial duties and trivial spikes had drawn lines whose weak blue eyes had such intensity or individuality whose features were blurred insensitive and callous she was adoring something shallow and smug clinging to it to the obstinate mouth witnessed with the aciduity of a limpid nothing would tear her from her demure belief in her own virtue and the virtues of her religion she was a limpid with the sensitive side of her stuck to a rock for ever dead to the rush of fresh and beautiful things past her the face of this single worshipper became printed on Rachel's mind with an impression of keen horror and she had it suddenly revealed to her what Helen meant and Syngin meant when they proclaimed their hatred of Christianity with the violence that now marked her feeling she rejected all that she had implicitly believed meanwhile Mr. Bax was half way through the second lesson she looked at him he was a man of the world with supple lips and an agreeable manner he was indeed a man of much kindliness and simplicity though by no means clever but he was not in the mood to give anyone credit for such qualities and examined him as though he were an epitome of all the vices of his service right at the back of the chapel Mrs. Flushing, Hurst and Hewitt sat in a row in a very different frame of mind Hewitt was staring at the roof with his leg stuck out in front of him for as he had never tried to make the service fit any feelings or idea of his he was able to enjoy the beauty of the language without hindrance his mind was occupied first with accidental things such as the women's hair in front of him the light on the faces then with the words which seemed to him magnificent and then more vaguely the characters of the other worshippers but when he suddenly perceived Rachel all these thoughts were driven out of his head and he thought only of her the psalms, the prayers, the litany and the sermon were all reduced to one chanting sound which paused and then renewed itself a little higher or a little lower he stared alternately at Rachel and at the ceiling but his expression was now produced not by what he saw but something in his mind he was almost as painfully disturbed by his thoughts as she was by hers early in the service Mrs. Flushing had discovered that she had taken up a bible instead of a prayer book and as she was sitting next to hers she stole a glance over his shoulder he was reading steadily in a thin pale blue volume unable to understand she peered closer upon which hers politely laid the book before her pointing at the first line of a Greek poem and then to the translation opposite what's that she whispered inquisitively Sappho he replied the one swim-burned it the best thing that's ever been written Mrs. Flushing could not resist such an opportunity she gulped down the ode to Aphrodite during the litany keeping herself with difficulty from asking when Sappho lived and what else she wrote worth reading he was striving to come impunctually at the end with the forgiveness of sins the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting amen meanwhile Hearst took out an envelope and began scribbling on the back of it when Mr. Bax mounted the pulpit he shut up Sappho with his envelope between the pages settled his spectacles and fixed his gaze intently upon the clergyman standing in the pulpit he looked very large and fat coming through the greenish unstained window glass made his face appear smooth and white like a very large egg he looked round at all the faces looking mildly up at him though some of them were the faces of men and women old enough to be his grandparents and gave out his text with weighty significance the argument of the sermon was that visitors to this beautiful land although they were on a holiday owed a duty to the natives it did not in truth differ very much from a leading article upon topics of general interest in the weekly newspapers it rambled with a kind of amiable verbosity from one heading to another suggesting that all human beings are very much the same under their skins illustrating this by the resemblance of the games which little Spanish boys play to the games little boys in London streets play observing that very small things do influence people particularly natives in fact a very dear friend of Mr. Bax's had told him that the success of our rule in India that vast country largely depended upon the strict code of politeness which the English adopted towards the natives which led to the remark that small things were not necessarily small and that somehow to the virtue of sympathy which was a virtue never more needed than today when we lived in a time of experiment and upheaval witnessed the airplane and wireless telegraph and there were other problems which hardly presented themselves to our fathers but which no man who caught himself a man could leave unsettled here Mr. Bax became more definitely clerical if it were possible he seemed to speak with a certain innocent craftiness as he pointed out that all this latest special duty upon earnest Christians what memory inclined to say now was oh that fellow he is a parson what we want them to say is he's a good fellow in other words he is my brother he exhorted them to keep in touch with men of the modern type they must sympathize with their multifarious interests in order to keep before their eyes that whatever discoveries were made there was one discovery which could not be superseded which was indeed as much of a necessity as the most successful and most brilliant of them all as it had been to their fathers the humblest could help the least important things had an influence here his manner became definitely priestly and his remarks seemed to be directed to women for indeed Mr. Bax's congregations were mainly composed of women and he was used to assigning them their duties in his innocent clerical campaigns leaving more definite instruction he passed on and his theme broadened into the peroration for which he drew a long breath and stood very upright as a drop of water detached alone separate from others falling from the cloud and entering the great ocean altars so scientists tell us not only the immediate spot in the ocean where it falls but all the myriad drops which together compose the great universe of waters and by this means alters the configuration of the globe and the lives of millions of sea creatures and finally the lives of the men and women who seek their living upon the shores as all this is within the compass of a single drop of water such as any rain showers sends in millions to lose themselves in the earth to lose themselves we say but we know very well that the fruits of the earth do not flourish without them so is a marvel comparable to this within the reach of each one of us whose dropping a little word or a little deed into the great universe alters it yea it is a solemn thought alters it for good or for evil not for one instant or for one vicinity but throughout the entire race and for all eternity whipping round as though to avoid applause he continued with the same breath but in a different tone of voice now to god the father he gave his blessing and then while the solemn chords again issued from the harmonium behind the curtain the different people began scraping and fumbling and moving very awkwardly and consciously towards the door half way upstairs at a point where the light and sounds of the upper world conflicted with the dimness and the dying hymn tune from the under Rachel felt a hand drop upon her shoulder Miss Vinris Mrs. Flushing whispered peremptorily state a luncheon it's such a dismal day they don't even give one beef for luncheon please stay here they came out into the hall where once more the little band was greeted with curious respectful glances by the people who had not gone to church although their clothing made it clear that they approved of Sunday to the very verge of going to church Rachel felt unable to stand any more of this particular atmosphere and was about to say she must go back when Terrence passed them drawn along in talk with Evelyn M Rachel thereupon contented herself with saying that the people looked very respectable which negative remark Mrs. Flushing interpreted to mean that she would stay English people abroad she returned with a vivid flash of malice ain't they awful but you won't stay here she continued plucking at Rachel's arm come up to my room she bore her past Hewitt and Evelyn and the Thornbris and the Elliotts Hewitt stepped forward luncheon he began Miss Vinrace has promised to lunch with me said Mrs. Flushing and began to pound energetically up the staircase as though the middle classes of England were in pursuit she did not stop until she had slammed her bedroom door behind them well what did you think of it she demanded panting slightly all the disgust and horror which Rachel had been accumulated burst forth beyond her control I thought it the most loadsome exhibition I'd ever seen she broke out how can they how dare they what do you mean by it Mr. Bax hospital nurses old men prostitutes disgusting she hit off the point she remembered as far as she could but she was too indignant to stop to analyse her feelings Mrs. Flushing watched her with a keen gusto as she stood ejaculating with emphatic movements of her head and hands in the middle of the room go on go on do go on she laughed clapping her hands it's delightful to hear you but why do you go Rachel demanded I've been every Sunday of my life ever since I can remember Mrs. Flushing chuckled as though that were a reason by itself Rachel turned abruptly to the window she did not know what it was that had put her into such a passion the sight of Terrence in the hall had confused her thoughts leaving her merely indignant she looked straight at their own villa half way up the side of the mountain the most familiar view seemed framed through glass has a certain unfamiliar distinction and she grew calm as she gazed then she remembered that she was in the presence of someone she did not know well and she turned and looked at Mrs. Flushing Mrs. Flushing was still sitting on the edge of the bed looking up with her lips parted so that her strong white teeth showed in two rows tell me she said which do you like best, Mr. Hewitt or Mr. Hurst Mr. Hewitt Rachel replied but her voice did not sound natural which is the one who reads Greek in church Mrs. Flushing demanded it might have been either of them and while Mrs. Flushing proceeded to describe them both and to say that both frightened her but one frightened her more than the other Rachel looked for a chair the room of course was one of the largest and most luxurious in the hotel there are a great many armchairs and settees covered in brown Holland but each of these was occupied by a large square piece of yellow cardboard and all the pieces of cardboard were dotted or lined with spots or dashes of bright oil paint which are not to look at those said Mrs. Flushing as she saw Rachel's eye wander she jumped up and turned as many as she could face downwards upon the floor Rachel however managed to possess herself of one of them and with the vanity of an artist Mrs. Flushing demanded anxiously well well it's a hill Rachel replied there could be no doubt that Mrs. Flushing had represented the vigorous and abrupt fling of the earth into the air you could almost see the clouds flying as it whirled Rachel passed from one to another they were all marked by something of a jerk and decision of their maker they were all perfectly untrained onslaughts of the brush upon some half realized idea suggested by hill or tree and they were all in some way characteristic of Mrs. Flushing I see things moving Mrs. Flushing explained so she swept her hand through a yard of the air and then took up one of the cardboards which Rachel had laid aside seated herself on a stool and began to flourish a stump of charcoal while she occupied herself in strokes which seemed to serve her as speech serves others Rachel who was very restless looked about her open the wardrobe so Mrs. Flushing after a pause speaking indistinctly because of a paintbrush in her mouth and look at other things as Rachel hesitated Mrs. Flushing came forwards still with a paintbrush in her mouth flung open the wings of her wardrobe and tossed a quantity of shawls, stuffs, cloaks, embroideries onto the bed Rachel began to finger them Mrs. Flushing came up once more and dropped a quantity of beads brooches, earrings, bracelets tassels and combs among the draperies and she went back to her stool and began to paint in silence the stuffs were coloured and dark and pale they made a curious swarm of lines and colours upon the counterpane with the reddish lumps of stone and peacocks feathers and clear pale tortoise shell combs lying among them the women wore them hundreds of years ago and wear them still Mrs. Flushing remarked my husband rides about and finds them they don't know what they're worth so we get them cheap she chuckled as though the thought of these ladies and their absurd appearance amused her after painting for some minute she suddenly laid down her brush and fixed her eyes upon Rachel I tell you what I want to do she said I want to go up there and see things for myself it's silly staying here with a pack of old maids as though we were at the seaside in England I want to go up the river and see the natives in the camps it's only a matter of ten days under canvas my husband's done it one would lie out under the trees at night and be towed down the river by day and if we saw anything nice we'd shout out and tell him to stop she rose and began piercing the bed again and again with a long golden pin as she watched to see what effect her suggestion had upon Rachel we must make up a party she went on ten people could hire a launch now you'll come and Mrs. Ambrose will come oh Mr. Hurst and other gentlemen come where's the pencil she became more and more determined and excited as she evolved her plan she sat on the edge of the bed and wrote down a list of surnames which she invariably spelt wrong Rachel was enthusiastic for indeed the idea was immeasurably delightful to her she had always had a great desire to see the river and the name of Terrence threw a luster over the prospect which made it almost too good to come true she did what she could to help Mrs. Flushing by suggesting names, helping her to spell them and counting up the days of the week upon her fingers as Mrs. Flushing wanted to know or she could tell her about the birth and pursuits of every person she suggested and threw in wild stories of her own as to the temperaments and habits of artists and people of the same name who used to come to chillingly in the old days but were doubtless not the same though they too were very clever men interested in Egyptology the business took some time at last Mrs. Flushing sought her diary for help the method of reckoning dates on the fingers proving unsatisfactory she opened and shut every drawer in her writing table and then cried furiously Ya Moth, Ya Moth Drap the woman she's always out of the way when she's wanted at this moment the luncheon gong began to work itself into its midday frenzy Mrs. Flushing rang her bell violently the door was opened by a handsome maid who was almost as upright as her mistress Oh Ya Moth, said Mrs. Flushing just find my diary and see where ten days from now will bring us to and ask the whole port how many men would be wanted to row eight people up the river for a week and what it had cost and put it on a slip of paper and leave it on my dressing table now she pointed at the door with a superb forefinger so that Rachel had to lead the way Oh and Ya Moth Mrs. Flushing called back over her shoulder put those things away and hang them in their right places, that's a good girl or it fusses Mr. Flushing to all of which Ya Moth merely replied, yes ma'am as they entered the long dining room it was obvious that the day was still Sunday although the mood was slightly abating the Flushing's table was set by the side in the window so that Mrs. Flushing could scrutinise each figure as it entered and her curiosity seemed to be intense Oh Mrs. Paley she whispered as the wheeled chair slowly made its way through the door Arthur pushing behind Thornbrus came next that nice woman she nudged Rachel to look at Miss Allen what's her name the painted lady who always came in late tripping into the room with a prepared smile as though she came out upon a stage might well have quailed before Mrs. Flushing's stare which expressed her steely hostility to the whole tribe of painted ladies next came the two young men whom Mrs. Flushing called collectively the Hursts they sat down opposite across the gangway Mr. Flushing treated his wife with a mixture of admiration and indulgence making up by the suavity and fluency of his speech for the abruptness of hers while she darted and ejaculated he gave Rachel a sketch of the history of South American art he would deal with one of his wife's exclamations and then return as smoothly as ever to his theme he knew very well how to make a lunch and pass agreeably without being dull or intimate he had formed the opinion so he told Rachel that wonderful treasures lay hid in the depths of the land the things Rachel had seen were merely picked up in the course of one short journey he thought there might be giant gods who run out of stone in the mountainside and colossal figures standing by themselves in the middle of vast green pasture lands where numbered natives had ever trod before the dawn of European art he believed that the primitive huntsmen and priests had built temples of massive stone slabs had formed out of the dark rocks and the great cedar trees of gods and of beasts and symbols of the great forces water, air and forest among which they lived there might be prehistoric towns like those in Greece and Asia standing in open spaces among the trees filled with the works of this early race nobody had been there scarcely anything was known thus talking and displaying the most picturesque of his theories Rachel's attention was fixed upon him she did not see that Hewitt kept looking at her across the gangway between the figures of waiters hurrying past with plates he was inattentive and Hearst was finding him also very cross and disagreeable they had touched upon all the usual topics upon politics and literature gossip and Christianity they had quarrelled over the service which was every bit as fine as Sappho according to Hewitt so that Hearst's paganism was mere a sentation such he demanded merely in order to read Sappho Hearst observed that he had listened to every word of the sermon as he could prove if Hewitt would like a repetition of it and he went to church in order to realise the nature of his creator which he had done very vividly that morning thanks to Mr. Bax who had inspired him to write three of the most superb lines in English literature an invocation to the deity I wrote him on the back of the envelope of my aunt's last letter he said and pulled it from between the pages of Sappho well let's hear them said Hewitt slightly mollified by the prospect of a literary discussion my dear Hewitt do you wish us both to be flung out of the hotel by an enraged mob of thornbrews and elliards Hearst inquired the merest whisper will be sufficient to incriminate me for ever God he broke out what's the use of attempting to write Hewitt's wealth peopled by such damned fools seriously Hewitt I'd ride you to give up literature what's the good of it there's your audience he nodded his head at the tables where the very miscellaneous collection of Europeans were now engaged in eating in some case annoying the stringy forum fouls Hewitt looked and grew more out of temper than ever Hearst looked too his eyes fell upon Rachel and he bowed to her I rather think Rachel's in love with me he remarked as his eyes returned to his plate that's the worst of friendships with young women they tend to fall in love with one to that Hewitt made no answer whatever and sat singularly still Hearst did not seem to mind getting no answer for he returned to Mr. Bax again quoting the peroration about the drop of water and when Hewitt scarcely replied to these remarks either he merely pursed his lips, chose a fig and relapsed quite contentedly into his own thoughts of which he always had a very large supply when lunch was over they separated taking their cups of coffee to different parts of the hall from his chair beneath the palm tree Hewitt saw Rachel come out of the dining room with the flushings he saw them look round for chairs and choose three in a corner where they could go on talking in private Mr. Flushing was now in the full tide of his discourse he produced a sheet of paper upon which he made drawings as he went on with his talk he saw Rachel lean over and look, point into this and that with her finger Hewitt unkindly compared Mr. Flushing who was extremely well dressed for a hot climate and rather elaborate in his manner to a very persuasive shopkeeper meanwhile as he sat looking at them he was entangled in the thorn breeze Miss Allen who after hovering about for a minute or so settled in chairs round him holding their cups in their hands they wanted to know whether he could tell them anything about Mr. Banks Mr. Thornberry as usual sat saying nothing looking vaguely ahead of him occasionally raising his eyeglasses as if to put them on and always thinking better of it at the last moment and letting them fall again after some discussion the ladies put it beyond a doubt that Mr. Banks was not the son of Mr. William Banks there was a pause then Mrs. Thornberry remarked that she was still in the habit of saying queen instead of king in the national anthem there was another pause then Miss Allen observed reflectively that going to church abroad always made her feel as if she had been to a sailor's funeral there was then a very long pause which threatened to be final where mercifully a bird about the size of a magpie but of a metallic blue colour appeared on the section of the terrace that could be seen from where they sat Mrs. Thornberry was led to inquire whether we should like it if all our rucks were blue what do you think William she asked touching her husband on the knee if all our rucks were blue he said he raised his glasses he actually placed them on his nose they would not long live in Wiltshire he concluded he dropped his glasses to his side again the three elderly people now gazed meditatively at the bird which was so obliging us to stay in the middle of the view for considerable space of time thus making it unnecessary for them to speak again Hewitt began to wonder whether he might not cross over to the Flushings corner when Hearst appeared from the background slipped into a chair by Rachel's side and began to talk to her with every appearance of familiarity Hewitt could stand it no longer he rose took his hat and dashed out of doors End of Chapter 17