Місіс Деллоуей

           )

           “Theaddress?”murmuredHughWhitbread;andtherewasatoncearippleinthegreytideofservicewhichwashedroundLadyBrutondayin,dayout,collecting,intercepting,envelopingherinafinetissuewhichbrokeconcussions,mitigatedinterruptions,andspreadroundthehouseinBrookStreetafinenetwherethingslodgedandwerepickedoutaccurately,instantly,bygrey-hairedPerkins,whohadbeenwithLadyBrutonthesethirtyyearsandnowwrotedowntheaddress;handedittoMr.Whitbread,whotookouthispocket-book,raisedhiseyebrows,andslippingitinamongdocumentsofthehighestimportance,saidthathewouldgetEvelyntoaskhimtolunch.

           (TheywerewaitingtobringthecoffeeuntilMr.Whitbreadhadfinished.)

           Hughwasveryslow,LadyBrutonthought.Hewasgettingfat,shenoticed.Richardalwayskepthimselfinthepinkofcondition.Shewasgettingimpatient;thewholeofherbeingwassettingpositively,undeniably,domineeringlybrushingasideallthisunnecessarytrifling(PeterWalshandhisaffairs)uponthatsubjectwhichengagedherattention,andnotmerelyherattention,butthatfibrewhichwastheramrodofhersoul,thatessentialpartofherwithoutwhichMillicentBrutonwouldnothavebeenMillicentBruton;thatprojectforemigratingyoungpeopleofbothsexesbornofrespectableparentsandsettingthemupwithafairprospectofdoingwellinCanada.Sheexaggerated.Shehadperhapslosthersenseofproportion.