MRS. DALLOWAY 
roles severed chickens swim; coloured, undomestic, the 
fire burns; and with the wine and the coffee (not paid 
for) rise jocund visions before musing eyes; gently specu- 
lative eyes; eyes to whom life appears musical, mysteri- 
ous; eyes now kindled to observe genially the beauty 
of the red carnations which Lady Bruton (whose 
movements were always angular) had laid beside her 
plate, so that Hugh Whitbread, feeling at peace with 
the entire universe and at the same time completely 
sure of his standing, said, resting his fork: 
“Wouldn’t they look charming against your lace ?*’ 
Miss Brush resented this familiarity intensely. She 
thought him an underbred fellow. She made Lady 
Bruton laugh. 
Lady Bruton raised the carnations, holding them 
rather stiffly with much the same attitude with which 
the General held the scroll in the picture behind her; 
she remained fixed, tranced. Which was she now, the 
General’s great-granddaughter? great-great-grand- 
daughter ? Richard Dalloway asked himself. Sir Roder- 
ick, Sir Miles, Sir Talbot—that was it. It was remark- 
able how in that family the likeness persisted in the 
women. She should have been a general of dragoons 
herself. And Richard would have served under her, 
cheerfully; he had the greatest respect for her; he cher- 
ished these romantic views about well-set-up old 
women of pedigree, and would have liked, in his good- 
humoured way, to bring some young hot-heads of his 
acquaintance to lunch with her; as if a type like hers 
could be bred of amiable tea-drinking enthusiasts! He 
knew her country. He knew her people. There was a 
vine, still bearing, which either Lovelace or Herrick— 
she never read a word of poetry herself, but so the story 
ran—had sat under. Better wait to put before them the 
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