“Henry the Fifth,” said Mr. Grice.

“Joy!” cried Clarissa.  “It is!”

Hamlet was what you might call too introspective for Mr. Grice, the sonnets too passionate; Henry the Fifth was to him the model of an English gentleman.  But his favourite reading was Huxley, Herbert Spencer, and Henry George; while Emerson and Thomas Hardy he read for relaxation.  He was giving Mrs. Dalloway his views upon the present state of England when the breakfast bell rung so imperiously that she had to tear herself away, promising to come back and be shown his sea-weeds.

The party, which had seemed so odd to her the night before, was already gathered round the table, still under the influence of sleep, and therefore uncommunicative, but her entrance sent a little flutter like a breath of air through them all.

“I’ve had the most interesting talk of my life!” she exclaimed, taking her seat beside Willoughby.  “D’you realise that one of your men is a philosopher and a poet?”

“A very interesting fellow—­that’s what I always say,” said Willoughby, distinguishing Mr. Grice.  “Though Rachel finds him a bore.”

“He’s a bore when he talks about currents,” said Rachel.  Her eyes were full of sleep, but Mrs. Dalloway still seemed to her wonderful.

“I’ve never met a bore yet!” said Clarissa.

“And I should say the world was full of them!” exclaimed Helen.  But her beauty, which was radiant in the morning light, took the contrariness from her words.

“I agree that it’s the worst one can possibly say of any one,” said Clarissa.  “How much rather one would be a murderer than a bore!” she added, with her usual air of saying something profound.  “One can fancy liking a murderer.  It’s the same with dogs.  Some dogs are awful bores, poor dears.”

It happened that Richard was sitting next to Rachel.  She was curiously conscious of his presence and appearance—­his well-cut clothes, his crackling shirt-front, his cuffs with blue rings round them, and the square-tipped, very clean fingers with the red stone on the little finger of the left hand.

“We had a dog who was a bore and knew it,” he said, addressing her in cool, easy tones.  “He was a Skye terrier, one of those long chaps, with little feet poking out from their hair like—­like caterpillars—­no, like sofas I should say.  Well, we had another dog at the same time, a black brisk animal—­a Schipperke, I think, you call them.  You can’t imagine a greater contrast.  The Skye so slow and deliberate, looking up at you like some old gentleman in the club, as much as to say, ’You don’t really mean it, do you?’ and the Schipperke as quick as a knife.  I liked the Skye best, I must confess.  There was something pathetic about him.”

The story seemed to have no climax.

“What happened to him?” Rachel asked.

“That’s a very sad story,” said Richard, lowering his voice and peeling an apple.  “He followed my wife in the car one day and got run over by a brute of a cyclist.”