Місіс Деллоуей

           ThereshewouldsitattheheadofthetabletakinginfinitepainswithsomeoldbufferwhomightbeusefultoDalloway—theyknewthemostappallingboresinEurope—orincameElizabethandeverythingmustgivewaytoHER.ShewasataHighSchool,attheinarticulatestagelasttimehewasover,around-eyed,pale-facedgirl,withnothingofhermotherinher,asilentstolidcreature,whotookitallasamatterofcourse,lethermothermakeafussofher,andthensaid“MayIgonow?”likeachildoffour;goingoff,Clarissaexplained,withthatmixtureofamusementandpridewhichDallowayhimselfseemedtorouseinher,toplayhockey.AndnowElizabethwas“out,”presumably;thoughthimanoldfogy,laughedathermother’sfriends.Ahwell,sobeit.Thecompensationofgrowingold,PeterWalshthought,comingoutofRegent’sPark,andholdinghishatinhand,wassimplythis;thatthepassionsremainasstrongasever,butonehasgained—atlast!—thepowerwhichaddsthesupremeflavourtoexistence—thepoweroftakingholdofexperience,ofturningitround,slowly,inthelight.

           Aterribleconfessionitwas(heputhishatonagain),butnow,attheageoffifty-threeonescarcelyneededpeopleanymore.Lifeitself,everymomentofit,everydropofit,here,thisinstant,now,inthesun,inRegent’sPark,wasenough.Toomuchindeed.