“I always think that people are so like their boots,” said Miss Allan.  “That is Mrs. Paley’s—­” but as she spoke the door opened, and Mrs. Paley rolled out in her chair, equipped also for tea.

She greeted Miss Allan and Rachel.

“I was just saying that people are so like their boots,” said Miss Allan.  Mrs. Paley did not hear.  She repeated it more loudly still.  Mrs. Paley did not hear.  She repeated it a third time.  Mrs. Paley heard, but she did not understand.  She was apparently about to repeat it for the fourth time, when Rachel suddenly said something inarticulate, and disappeared down the corridor.  This misunderstanding, which involved a complete block in the passage, seemed to her unbearable.  She walked quickly and blindly in the opposite direction, and found herself at the end of a cul de sac.  There was a window, and a table and a chair in the window, and upon the table stood a rusty inkstand, an ashtray, an old copy of a French newspaper, and a pen with a broken nib.  Rachel sat down, as if to study the French newspaper, but a tear fell on the blurred French print, raising a soft blot.  She lifted her head sharply, exclaiming aloud, “It’s intolerable!” Looking out of the window with eyes that would have seen nothing even had they not been dazed by tears, she indulged herself at last in violent abuse of the entire day.  It had been miserable from start to finish; first, the service in the chapel; then luncheon; then Evelyn; then Miss Allan; then old Mrs. Paley blocking up the passage.  All day long she had been tantalized and put off.  She had now reached one of those eminences, the result of some crisis, from which the world is finally displayed in its true proportions.  She disliked the look of it immensely—­churches, politicians, misfits, and huge impostures—­men like Mr. Dalloway, men like Mr. Bax, Evelyn and her chatter, Mrs. Paley blocking up the passage.  Meanwhile the steady beat of her own pulse represented the hot current of feeling that ran down beneath; beating, struggling, fretting.  For the time, her own body was the source of all the life in the world, which tried to burst forth here—­there—­and was repressed now by Mr. Bax, now by Evelyn, now by the imposition of ponderous stupidity, the weight of the entire world.  Thus tormented, she would twist her hands together, for all things were wrong, all people stupid.  Vaguely seeing that there were people down in the garden beneath she represented them as aimless masses of matter, floating hither and thither, without aim except to impede her.  What were they doing, those other people in the world?

“Nobody knows,” she said.  The force of her rage was beginning to spend itself, and the vision of the world which had been so vivid became dim.

“It’s a dream,” she murmured.  She considered the rusty inkstand, the pen, the ash-tray, and the old French newspaper.  These small and worthless objects seemed to her to represent human lives.