Місіс Деллоуей

           Andsotherebeganasoundlessandexquisitepassingtoandfrothroughswingdoorsofapronedwhite-cappedmaids,handmaidensnotofnecessity,butadeptsinamysteryorgranddeceptionpractisedbyhostessesinMayfairfromone-thirtytotwo,when,withawaveofthehand,thetrafficceases,andthererisesinsteadthisprofoundillusioninthefirstplaceaboutthefood—howitisnotpaidfor;andthenthatthetablespreadsitselfvoluntarilywithglassandsilver,littlemats,saucersofredfruit;filmsofbrowncreammaskturbot;incasserolesseveredchickensswim;coloured,undomestic,thefireburns;andwiththewineandthecoffee(notpaidfor)risejocundvisionsbeforemusingeyes;gentlyspeculativeeyes;eyestowhomlifeappearsmusical,mysterious;eyesnowkindledtoobservegeniallythebeautyoftheredcarnationswhichLadyBruton(whosemovementswerealwaysangular)hadlaidbesideherplate,sothatHughWhitbread,feelingatpeacewiththeentireuniverseandatthesametimecompletelysureofhisstanding,said,restinghisfork,

           “Wouldn’ttheylookcharmingagainstyourlace?”

           MissBrushresentedthisfamiliarityintensely.Shethoughthimanunderbredfellow.ShemadeLadyBrutonlaugh.

           LadyBrutonraisedthecarnations,holdingthemratherstifflywithmuchthesameattitudewithwhichtheGeneralheldthescrollinthepicturebehindher;sheremainedfixed,tranced.