Місіс Деллоуей

           Butwhydidhecome,then,merelytocriticise?Whyalwaystake,nevergive?Whynotriskone’sonelittlepointofview?Therehewaswanderingoff,andshemustspeaktohim.Butshewouldnotgetthechance.Lifewasthat—humiliation,renunciation.WhatLordLexhamwassayingwasthathiswifewouldnotwearherfursatthegardenpartybecause“mydear,youladiesareallalike”—LadyLexhambeingseventy-fiveatleast!Itwasdelicious,howtheypettedeachother,thatoldcouple.ShedidlikeoldLordLexham.Shedidthinkitmattered,herparty,anditmadeherfeelquitesicktoknowthatitwasallgoingwrong,allfallingflat.Anything,anyexplosion,anyhorrorwasbetterthanpeoplewanderingaimlessly,standinginabunchatacornerlikeEllieHenderson,notevencaringtoholdthemselvesupright.

           GentlytheyellowcurtainwithallthebirdsofParadiseblewoutanditseemedasiftherewereaflightofwingsintotheroom,rightout,thensuckedback.(Forthewindowswereopen.)Wasitdraughty,EllieHendersonwondered?Shewassubjecttochills.Butitdidnotmatterthatsheshouldcomedownsneezingto-morrow;itwasthegirlswiththeirnakedshouldersshethoughtof,beingtrainedtothinkofothersbyanoldfather,aninvalid,latevicarofBourton,buthewasdeadnow;andherchillsneverwenttoherchest,never.