Місіс Деллоуей

           Haymakers,whohadpitchedbeneathhedgestosleepawaythemorningtoil,partedcurtainsofgreenblades;movedtremblingglobesofcowparsleytoseethesky;theblue,thesteadfast,theblazingsummersky.

           Awarethathewaslookingatasilvertwo-handledJacobeanmug,andthatHughWhitbreadadmiredcondescendinglywithairsofconnoisseurshipaSpanishnecklacewhichhethoughtofaskingthepriceofincaseEvelynmightlikeit—stillRichardwastorpid;couldnotthinkormove.Lifehadthrownupthiswreckage;shopwindowsfullofcolouredpaste,andonestoodstarkwiththelethargyoftheold,stiffwiththerigidityoftheold,lookingin.EvelynWhitbreadmightliketobuythisSpanishnecklace—soshemight.Yawnhemust.Hughwasgoingintotheshop.

           “Rightyouare!”saidRichard,following.

           Goodnessknowshedidn’twanttogobuyingnecklaceswithHugh.Buttherearetidesinthebody.Morningmeetsafternoon.Bornelikeafrailshallopondeep,deepfloods,LadyBruton’sgreat-grandfatherandhismemoirandhiscampaignsinNorthAmericawerewhelmedandsunk.AndMillicentBrutontoo.Shewentunder.Richarddidn’tcareastrawwhatbecameofEmigration;aboutthatletter,whethertheeditorputitinornot.ThenecklacehungstretchedbetweenHugh’sadmirablefingers.Lethimgiveittoagirl,ifhemustbuyjewels—anygirl,anygirlinthestreet.FortheworthlessnessofthislifedidstrikeRichardprettyforcibly—buyingnecklacesforEvelyn.