Clarissa exclaimed that she could think of nothing more delightful.  For an instant she saw herself in her drawing-room in Browne Street with a Plato open on her knees—­Plato in the original Greek.  She could not help believing that a real scholar, if specially interested, could slip Greek into her head with scarcely any trouble.

Ridley engaged her to come to-morrow.

“If only your ship is going to treat us kindly!” she exclaimed, drawing Willoughby into play.  For the sake of guests, and these were distinguished, Willoughby was ready with a bow of his head to vouch for the good behaviour even of the waves.

“I’m dreadfully bad; and my husband’s not very good,” sighed Clarissa.

“I am never sick,” Richard explained.  “At least, I have only been actually sick once,” he corrected himself.  “That was crossing the Channel.  But a choppy sea, I confess, or still worse, a swell, makes me distinctly uncomfortable.  The great thing is never to miss a meal.  You look at the food, and you say, ‘I can’t’; you take a mouthful, and Lord knows how you’re going to swallow it; but persevere, and you often settle the attack for good.  My wife’s a coward.”

They were pushing back their chairs.  The ladies were hesitating at the doorway.

“I’d better show the way,” said Helen, advancing.

Rachel followed.  She had taken no part in the talk; no one had spoken to her; but she had listened to every word that was said.  She had looked from Mrs. Dalloway to Mr. Dalloway, and from Mr. Dalloway back again.  Clarissa, indeed, was a fascinating spectacle.  She wore a white dress and a long glittering necklace.  What with her clothes, and her arch delicate face, which showed exquisitely pink beneath hair turning grey, she was astonishingly like an eighteenth-century masterpiece—­a Reynolds or a Romney.  She made Helen and the others look coarse and slovenly beside her.  Sitting lightly upright she seemed to be dealing with the world as she chose; the enormous solid globe spun round this way and that beneath her fingers.  And her husband!  Mr. Dalloway rolling that rich deliberate voice was even more impressive.  He seemed to come from the humming oily centre of the machine where the polished rods are sliding, and the pistons thumping; he grasped things so firmly but so loosely; he made the others appear like old maids cheapening remnants.  Rachel followed in the wake of the matrons, as if in a trance; a curious scent of violets came back from Mrs. Dalloway, mingling with the soft rustling of her skirts, and the tinkling of her chains.  As she followed, Rachel thought with supreme self-abasement, taking in the whole course of her life and the lives of all her friends, “She said we lived in a world of our own.  It’s true.  We’re perfectly absurd.”

“We sit in here,” said Helen, opening the door of the saloon.

“You play?” said Mrs. Dalloway to Mrs. Ambrose, taking up the score of Tristan which lay on the table.