asked Helen.

"Too emotional, somehow," said Clarissa. "One notices it at once when a
boy or girl takes up music as a profession. Sir William Broadley told me
just the same thing. Don't you hate the kind of attitudes people go into
over Wagner--like this--" She cast her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her
hands, and assumed a look of intensity. "It really doesn't mean that
they appreciate him; in fact, I always think it's the other way round.
The people who really care about an art are always the least affected.
D'you know Henry Philips, the painter?" she asked.

"I have seen him," said Helen.

"To look at, one might think he was a successful stockbroker, and not
one of the greatest painters of the age. That's what I like."

"There are a great many successful stockbrokers, if you like looking at
them," said Helen.

Rachel wished vehemently that her aunt would not be so perverse.

"When you see a musician with long hair, don't you know instinctively
that he's bad?" Clarissa asked, turning to Rachel. "Watts and
Joachim--they looked just like you and me."

"And how much nicer they'd have looked with curls!" said Helen. "The
question is, are you going to aim at beauty or are you not?"

"Cleanliness!" said Clarissa, "I do want a man to look clean!"

"By cleanliness you really mean well-cut clothes," said Helen.

"There's something one knows a gentleman by," said Clarissa, "but one
can't say what it is."

"Take my husband now, does he look like a gentleman?"

The question seemed to Clarissa in extraordinarily bad taste. "One of
the things that can't be said," she would have put it. She could find no
answer, but a laugh.

"Well, anyhow," she said, turning to Rachel, "I shall insist upon your
playing to me to-morrow."

There was that in her manner that made Rachel love her.

Mrs. Dalloway hid a tiny yawn, a mere dilation of the nostrils.

"D'you know," she said, "I'm extraordinarily sleepy. It's the sea air. I
think I shall escape."

A man's voice, which she took to be that of Mr. Pepper, strident in
discussion, and advancing upon the saloon, gave her the alarm.

"Good-night--good-night!" she said. "Oh, I know my way--do pray for
calm! Good-night!"

Her yawn must have been the image of a yawn. Instead of letting her
mouth droop, dropping all her clothes in a bunch as though they depended
on one string, and stretching her limbs to the utmost end of her berth,
she merely changed her dress for a dressing-gown,