He was a man of forty perhaps; and here there were lines round his eyes, and there curious clefts in his cheeks.  Slightly battered he appeared, but dogged and in the prime of life.

“Sisters and a dormouse and some canaries,” Rachel murmured, never taking her eyes off him.  “I wonder, I wonder” she ceased, her chin upon her hand, still looking at him.  A bell chimed behind them, and Richard raised his head.  Then he opened his eyes which wore for a second the queer look of a shortsighted person’s whose spectacles are lost.  It took him a moment to recover from the impropriety of having snored, and possibly grunted, before a young lady.  To wake and find oneself left alone with one was also slightly disconcerting.

“I suppose I’ve been dozing,” he said.  “What’s happened to everyone?  Clarissa?”

“Mrs. Dalloway has gone to look at Mr. Grice’s fish,” Rachel replied.

“I might have guessed,” said Richard.  “It’s a common occurrence.  And how have you improved the shining hour?  Have you become a convert?”

“I don’t think I’ve read a line,” said Rachel.

“That’s what I always find.  There are too many things to look at.  I find nature very stimulating myself.  My best ideas have come to me out of doors.”

“When you were walking?”

“Walking—­riding—­yachting—­I suppose the most momentous conversations of my life took place while perambulating the great court at Trinity.  I was at both universities.  It was a fad of my father’s.  He thought it broadening to the mind.  I think I agree with him.  I can remember—­what an age ago it seems!—­settling the basis of a future state with the present Secretary for India.  We thought ourselves very wise.  I’m not sure we weren’t.  We were happy, Miss Vinrace, and we were young—­gifts which make for wisdom.”

“Have you done what you said you’d do?” she asked.

“A searching question!  I answer—­Yes and No.  If on the one hand I have not accomplished what I set out to accomplish—­which of us does!—­on the other I can fairly say this:  I have not lowered my ideal.”

He looked resolutely at a sea-gull, as though his ideal flew on the wings of the bird.

“But,” said Rachel, “what is your ideal?”

“There you ask too much, Miss Vinrace,” said Richard playfully.

She could only say that she wanted to know, and Richard was sufficiently amused to answer.

“Well, how shall I reply?  In one word—­Unity.  Unity of aim, of dominion, of progress.  The dispersion of the best ideas over the greatest area.”

“The English?”

“I grant that the English seem, on the whole, whiter than most men, their records cleaner.  But, good Lord, don’t run away with the idea that I don’t see the drawbacks—­horrors—­unmentionable things done in our very midst!  I’m under no illusions.  Few people, I suppose, have fewer illusions than I have.  Have you ever been in a factory, Miss Vinrace!—­No, I suppose not—­I may say I hope not.”