Місіс Деллоуей

           Tobehavinganawfulscene—thepoorgirllookedabsolutelydesperate—inthemiddleofthemorning.Butwhatwasitabout,hewondered,whathadtheyoungmanintheovercoatbeensayingtohertomakeherlooklikethat;whatawfulfixhadtheygotthemselvesinto,bothtolooksodesperateasthatonafinesummermorning?TheamusingthingaboutcomingbacktoEngland,afterfiveyears,wasthewayitmade,anyhowthefirstdays,thingsstandoutasifonehadneverseenthembefore;loverssquabblingunderatree;thedomesticfamilylifeoftheparks.NeverhadheseenLondonlooksoenchanting—thesoftnessofthedistances;therichness;thegreenness;thecivilisation,afterIndia,hethought,strollingacrossthegrass.

           Thissusceptibilitytoimpressionshadbeenhisundoingnodoubt.Stillathisagehehad,likeaboyoragirleven,thesealternationsofmood;gooddays,baddays,fornoreasonwhatever,happinessfromaprettyface,downrightmiseryatthesightofafrump.AfterIndiaofcourseonefellinlovewitheverywomanonemet.Therewasafreshnessaboutthem;eventhepoorestdressedbetterthanfiveyearsagosurely;andtohiseyethefashionshadneverbeensobecoming;thelongblackcloaks;theslimness;theelegance;andthenthedeliciousandapparentlyuniversalhabitofpaint.Everywoman,eventhemostrespectable,hadrosesbloomingunderglass;lipscutwithaknife;curlsofIndianink;therewasdesign,art,everywhere;achangeofsomesorthadundoubtedlytakenplace.