Місіс Деллоуей

           ”WhynotcallRichard“Wickham”?Clarissahadflaredup!andindeedtheyhadneverseeneachothersince,sheandClarissa,notmorethanhalfadozentimesperhapsinthelasttenyears.AndPeterWalshhadgoneofftoIndia,andshehadheardvaguelythathehadmadeanunhappymarriage,andshedidn’tknowwhetherhehadanychildren,andshecouldn’taskhim,forhehadchanged.Hewasrathershrivelled-looking,butkinder,shefelt,andshehadarealaffectionforhim,forhewasconnectedwithheryouth,andshestillhadalittleEmilyBrontëhehadgivenher,andhewastowrite,surely?Inthosedayshewastowrite.

           “Haveyouwritten?”sheaskedhim,spreadingherhand,herfirmandshapelyhand,onherkneeinawayherecalled.

           “Notaword!”saidPeterWalsh,andshelaughed.

           Shewasstillattractive,stillapersonage,SallySeton.ButwhowasthisRosseter?Heworetwocamelliasonhisweddingday—thatwasallPeterknewofhim.“Theyhavemyriadsofservants,milesofconservatories,”Clarissawrote;somethinglikethat.Sallyowneditwithashoutoflaughter.

           “Yes,Ihavetenthousandayear”—whetherbeforethetaxwaspaidorafter,shecouldn’tremember,forherhusband,“whomyoumustmeet,”shesaid,“whomyouwouldlike,”shesaid,didallthatforher.

           AndSallyusedtobeinragsandtatters.Shehadpawnedhergrandmother’sringwhichMarieAntoinettehadgivenhergreat-grandfathertocometoBourton.