of size and
lack of detail, for the flames which ran along the branches, suddenly
devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sent irregular
illuminations across her face and the plaster walls. There were
no pictures on the walls but here and there boughs laden with
heavy-petalled flowers spread widely against them. Of the books fallen
on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table, it was only possible
in this light to trace the outline.

Mrs. Ambrose was writing a very long letter. Beginning "Dear Bernard,"
it went on to describe what had been happening in the Villa San Gervasio
during the past three months, as, for instance, that they had had the
British Consul to dinner, and had been taken over a Spanish man-of-war,
and had seen a great many processions and religious festivals, which
were so beautiful that Mrs. Ambrose couldn't conceive why, if people
must have a religion, they didn't all become Roman Catholics. They had
made several expeditions though none of any length. It was worth coming
if only for the sake of the flowering trees which grew wild quite near
the house, and the amazing colours of sea and earth. The earth, instead
of being brown, was red, purple, green. "You won't believe me," she
added, "there is no colour like it in England." She adopted, indeed,
a condescending tone towards that poor island, which was now advancing
chilly crocuses and nipped violets in nooks, in copses, in cosy corners,
tended by rosy old gardeners in mufflers, who were always touching
their hats and bobbing obsequiously. She went on to deride the islanders
themselves. Rumours of London all in a ferment over a General Election
had reached them even out here. "It seems incredible," she went on,
"that people should care whether Asquith is in or Austen Chamberlin out,
and while you scream yourselves hoarse about politics you let the only
people who are trying for something good starve or simply laugh at them.
When have you ever encouraged a living artist? Or bought his best work?
Why are you all so ugly and so servile? Here the servants are human
beings. They talk to one as if they were equals. As far as I can tell
there are no aristocrats."

Perhaps it was the mention of aristocrats that reminded her of Richard
Dalloway and Rachel, for she ran on with the same penful to describe her
niece.

"It's an odd fate that has put me in charge of a girl," she wrote,
"considering that I have never got on well with women, or