MRS. DALLOWAY 
And for a second she wore a look of extreme dignity 
standing by the flower shop in the sunlight while the 
car passed at a foot’s pace, with its blinds drawn. The 
Queen going to some hospital ; the Queen opening some 
bazaar, thought Clarissa. 
The crush was terrific for the time of day. Lords, 
Ascot, Hurlingham, what was it? she wondered, for 
the street was blocked. The British middle classes sit- 
ting sideways on the tops of omnibuses with parcels and 
umbrellas, yes, even furs on a day like this, were, she 
thought, more ridiculous, more unlike anything there 
has ever been than one could conceive; and the Queen 
herself held up; the Queen herself unable to pass. 
Clarissa was suspended on one side of Brook Street; 
Sir John Buckhurst, the old Judge, on the other, with 
the car between them (Sir John had laid down the law 
for years and liked a well-dressed woman) when the 
chauffeur, leaning ever so slightly, said or showed some- 
thing to the policeman, who saluted and raised his arm 
and jerked his head and moved the omnibus to the 
side and the car passed through. Slowly and very 
silently it took its way. 
Clarissa guessed; Clarissa knew of course; she had 
seen something white, magical, circular, in the foot- 
man’s hand, a disc inscribed with a name,—the 
Queen’s, the Prince of Wales's, the Prime Minister’s P— 
which, by force of its own lustre, burnt its way through 
(Clarissa saw the car diminishing, disappearing), to 
blaze among candelabras, glittering stars, breasts stiff 
with oak leaves, Hugh Whitbread and all his colleagues, 
the gentlemen of England, that night in Buckingham 
Palace. And Clarissa, too, gave a party. She stiffened a 
little; so she would stand at the top of her stairs. 
The car had gone, but it had left a slight ripple 
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