to enter into communion, to be delightfully expanded and combined with the spirit of the whitish boards on deck, with the spirit of the sea, with the spirit of Beethoven Op. 112, even with the spirit of poor William Cowper there at Olney.  Like a ball of thistledown it kissed the sea, rose, kissed it again, and thus rising and kissing passed finally out of sight.  The rising and falling of the ball of thistledown was represented by the sudden droop forward of her own head, and when it passed out of sight she was asleep.

Ten minutes later Mrs. Ambrose opened the door and looked at her.  It did not surprise her to find that this was the way in which Rachel passed her mornings.  She glanced round the room at the piano, at the books, at the general mess.  In the first place she considered Rachel aesthetically; lying unprotected she looked somehow like a victim dropped from the claws of a bird of prey, but considered as a woman, a young woman of twenty-four, the sight gave rise to reflections.  Mrs. Ambrose stood thinking for at least two minutes.  She then smiled, turned noiselessly away and went, lest the sleeper should waken, and there should be the awkwardness of speech between them.

Chapter III

Early next morning there was a sound as of chains being drawn roughly overhead; the steady heart of the Euphrosyne slowly ceased to beat; and Helen, poking her nose above deck, saw a stationary castle upon a stationary hill.  They had dropped anchor in the mouth of the Tagus, and instead of cleaving new waves perpetually, the same waves kept returning and washing against the sides of the ship.

As soon as breakfast was done, Willoughby disappeared over the vessel’s side, carrying a brown leather case, shouting over his shoulder that every one was to mind and behave themselves, for he would be kept in Lisbon doing business until five o’clock that afternoon.

At about that hour he reappeared, carrying his case, professing himself tired, bothered, hungry, thirsty, cold, and in immediate need of his tea.  Rubbing his hands, he told them the adventures of the day:  how he had come upon poor old Jackson combing his moustache before the glass in the office, little expecting his descent, had put him through such a morning’s work as seldom came his way; then treated him to a lunch of champagne and ortolans; paid a call upon Mrs. Jackson, who was fatter than ever, poor woman, but asked kindly after Rachel—­and O Lord, little Jackson had confessed to a confounded piece of weakness—­well, well, no harm was done, he supposed, but what was the use of his giving orders if they were promptly disobeyed?  He had said distinctly that he would take no passengers on this trip.  Here he began searching in his pockets and eventually discovered a card, which he planked down on the table before Rachel.  On it she read, “Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway, 23 Browne Street, Mayfair.”