“I don’t quite agree, Richard,” said Mrs. Dalloway.  “Think of Shelley.  I feel that there’s almost everything one wants in ‘Adonais.’”

“Read ‘Adonais’ by all means,” Richard conceded.  “But whenever I hear of Shelley I repeat to myself the words of Matthew Arnold, ’What a set!  What a set!’”

This roused Ridley’s attention.  “Matthew Arnold?  A detestable prig!” he snapped.

“A prig—­granted,” said Richard; “but, I think a man of the world.  That’s where my point comes in.  We politicians doubtless seem to you” (he grasped somehow that Helen was the representative of the arts) “a gross commonplace set of people; but we see both sides; we may be clumsy, but we do our best to get a grasp of things.  Now your artists find things in a mess, shrug their shoulders, turn aside to their visions—­which I grant may be very beautiful—­and leave things in a mess.  Now that seems to me evading one’s responsibilities.  Besides, we aren’t all born with the artistic faculty.”

“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, had been thinking.  “When I’m with artists I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful, and then I go out into the streets and the first child I meet with its poor, hungry, dirty little face makes me turn round and say, ’No, I can’t shut myself up—­I won’t live in a world of my own.  I should like to stop all the painting and writing and music until this kind of thing exists no longer.’  Don’t you feel,” she wound up, addressing Helen, “that life’s a perpetual conflict?” Helen considered for a moment.  “No,” she said.  “I don’t think I do.”

There was a pause, which was decidedly uncomfortable.  Mrs. Dalloway then gave a little shiver, and asked whether she might have her fur cloak brought to her.  As she adjusted the soft brown fur about her neck a fresh topic struck her.

“I own,” she said, “that I shall never forget the Antigone.  I saw it at Cambridge years ago, and it’s haunted me ever since.  Don’t you think it’s quite the most modern thing you ever saw?” she asked Ridley.  “It seemed to me I’d known twenty Clytemnestras.  Old Lady Ditchling for one.  I don’t know a word of Greek, but I could listen to it for ever—­”

Here Mr. Pepper struck up: 

     {Some editions of the work contain a brief passage
     from Antigone, in Greek, at this spot. ed.}

Mrs. Dalloway looked at him with compressed lips.

“I’d give ten years of my life to know Greek,” she said, when he had done.

“I could teach you the alphabet in half an hour,” said Ridley, “and you’d read Homer in a month.  I should think it an honour to instruct you.”

Helen, engaged with Mr. Dalloway and the habit, now fallen into decline, of quoting Greek in the House of Commons, noted, in the great commonplace book that lies open beside us as we talk, the fact that all men, even men like Ridley, really prefer women to be fashionable.