MRS. DALLOWAY
It was wonderful. Never had he done anything which
made him feel so proud. It was so real, it was so substantial,
 Mrs. Peters’ hat.
“Just look at it,” he said.
Yes, it would always make her happy to see that hat.
He had become himself then, he had laughed then.
They had been alone together. Always she would like
that hat.
He told her to try it on.
“But I must look so queer!” she cried, running over
to the glass and looking first this side, then that. Then
she snatched it off again, for there was a tap at the door.
Could it be Sir William Bradshaw? Had he sent already?

No! it was only the small girl with the evening paper.
What always happened, then happened—what happened
 every night of their lives. The small girl sucked
her thumb at the door; Rezia went down on her knees;
Rezia cooed and kissed; Rezia got a bag of sweets out
of the table drawer. For so it always happened. First
one thing, then another. So she built it up, first one
thing and then another. Dancing, skipping, round and
round the room they went. He took the paper. Surrey
was all out, he read. There was a heat wave. Rezia
repeated: Surrey was all out. There was a heat wave,
making it part of the game she was playing with Mrs.
Filmer’s grandchild, both of them laughing, chattering
at the same time, at their game. He was very tired.
He was very happy. He would sleep. He shut his eyes.
But directly he saw nothing the sounds of the game became
 fainter and stranger and sounded like the cries of
people seeking and not finding, and passing farther and
farther away. They had lost him!
He started up in terror. What did he see? The plate

15QG