. Helen looked
at Theresa pursing up her lips before the Cockney photographer. It
suggested her in an absurd human way, and she felt an intense desire to
share some joke.

"She's the only thing that's left to me," sighed Willoughby. "We go on
year after year without talking about these things--" He broke off. "But
it's better so. Only life's very hard."

Helen was sorry for him, and patted him on the shoulder, but she felt
uncomfortable when her brother-in-law expressed his feelings, and took
refuge in praising Rachel, and explaining why she thought her plan might
be a good one.

"True," said Willoughby when she had done. "The social conditions are
bound to be primitive. I should be out a good deal. I agreed because she
wished it. And of course I have complete confidence in you. . . . You
see, Helen," he continued, becoming confidential, "I want to bring
her up as her mother would have wished. I don't hold with these modern
views--any more than you do, eh? She's a nice quiet girl, devoted to her
music--a little less of _that_ would do no harm. Still, it's kept her
happy, and we lead a very quiet life at Richmond. I should like her to
begin to see more people. I want to take her about with me when I get
home. I've half a mind to rent a house in London, leaving my sisters at
Richmond, and take her to see one or two people who'd be kind to her
for my sake. I'm beginning to realise," he continued, stretching himself
out, "that all this is tending to Parliament, Helen. It's the only way
to get things done as one wants them done. I talked to Dalloway about
it. In that case, of course, I should want Rachel to be able to
take more part in things. A certain amount of entertaining would be
necessary--dinners, an occasional evening party. One's constituents like
to be fed, I believe. In all these ways Rachel could be of great help to
me. So," he wound up, "I should be very glad, if we arrange this visit
(which must be upon a business footing, mind), if you could see your way
to helping my girl, bringing her out--she's a little shy now,--making a
woman of her, the kind of woman her mother would have liked her to be,"
he ended, jerking his head at the photograph.

Willoughby's selfishness, though consistent as Helen saw with real
affection for his daughter, made her determined to have the girl to stay
with her, even if she had to promise a complete course of instruction
in the feminine graces. She could not help laughing at the