Volltext: Mrs. Dalloway

among documents of the highest importance, said that 
he would get Evelyn to ask him to lunch. 
(They were waiting to bring the coffee until Mr. 
Whitbread had finished.) 
Hugh was very slow, Lady Bruton thought. He was 
getting fat, she noticed. Richard always kept himself 
in the pink of condition. She was getting impatient; the 
whole of her being was setting positively, undeniably, 
domineeringly brushing aside all this unnecessary 
trifling (Peter Walsh and his affairs) upon that subject 
which engaged her attention, and not merely her atten- 
tion, but that fibre which was the ramrod of her soul, 
that essential part of her without which Millicent 
Bruton would not have been Millicent Bruton; that 
project for emigrating young people of both sexes born 
of respectable parents and setting them up with a fair 
prospect of doing well in Canada. She exaggerated. 
She had perhaps lost her sense of proportion. Emigra- 
tion was not to others the obvious remedy, the sublime 
conception. It was not to them (not to Hugh, or 
Richard, or even to devoted Miss Brush) the liberator 
of the pent egotism, which a strong martial woman, well 
nourished, well descended, of direct impulses, down- 
right feelings, and little introspective power (broad and 
simple—why could not every one be broad and simple ? 
she asked), feels rise within her, once youth is past, and 
must eject upon some object—it may be Emigration, it 
may be Emancipation; but whatever it be, this object 
round which the essence of her soul is daily secreted 
becomes inevitably prismatic, lustrous, half looking- 
glass, half precious stone; now carefully hidden in case 
people should sneer at it; now proudly displayed. 
Emigration had become, in short, largely Lady Bruton. 
But she had to write. And one letter to the Times, she 


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