MRS. DALLOWAY 
taking the old bald-looking cushion in the middle of the 
sofa and putting it in Lucy’s arms, and giving her a 
little push, and crying: 
“Take it away! Give it to Mrs. Walker with my 
compliments! Take it away!” she cried. 
And Lucy stopped at the drawing-room door, hold- 
ing the cushion, and said, very shyly, turning a little 
pink, couldn’t she help to mend that dress? 
But, said Mrs. Dalloway, she had enough on her 
hands already, quite enough of her own to do without 
that. 
“But, thank you, Lucy, oh, thank you,” said Mrs. 
Dalloway, and thank you, thank you, she went on 
saying (sitting down on the sofa with her dress over her 
knees, her scissors, her silks), thank you, thank you, she 
went on saying in gratitude to her servants generally 
for helping her to be like this, to be what she wanted, 
gentle, generous-hearted. Her servants liked her. And 
then this dress of hers—where was the tear? and now 
her needle to be threaded. This was a favourite dress, 
one of Sally Parker’s, the last almost she ever made, 
alas, for Sally had now retired, lived at Ealing, and if 
ever I have a moment, thought Clarissa (but never 
would she have a moment any more), I shall go and 
see her at Ealing. For she was a character, thought 
Clarissa, a real artist. She thought of little out-of-the- 
way things; yet her dresses were never queer. You 
could wear them at Hatfield; at Buckingham Palace. 
She had worn them at Hatfield; at Buckingham Palace. 
Quiet descended on her, calm, content, as her needle, 
drawing the silk smoothly to its gentle pause, collected 
the green folds together and attached them, very 
lightly, to the belt. So on a summer’s day waves col- 
lect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the 
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