The next few months passed away, as many years can pass away,without definite events, and yet, if suddenly disturbed, it wouldbe seen that such months or years had a character unlike others.

　　The three months which had passed had brought them to the beginningof March. The climate had kept its promise, and the changeof season from winter to spring had made very little difference,so that Helen, who was sitting in the drawing-room with a pen inher hand, could keep the windows open though a great fire of logsburnt on one side of her. Below, the sea was still blue and theroofs still brown and white, though the day was fading rapidly.

　　It was dusk in the room, which, large and empty at all times,now appeared larger and emptier than usual. Her own figure, as shesat writing with a pad on her knee, shared the general effect of sizeand lack of detail, for the flames which ran along the branches,suddenly devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sentirregular illuminations across her face and the plaster walls.

　　There were no pictures on the walls but here and there boughsladen with heavy-petalled flowers spread widely against them.

　　Of the books fallen on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table,it was only possible in this light to trace the outline.

　　Mrs. Ambrose was writing a very long letter. Beginning "Dear Bernard,"it went on to describe what had been happening in the Villa SanGervasio during the past three months, as, for instance, that theyhad had the British Consul to dinner, and had been taken over a Spanishman-of-war, and had seen a great many processions and religious festivals,which were so beautiful that Mrs. Ambrose couldn't conceive why,if people must have a religion, they didn't all become Roman Catholics.

　　They had made several expeditions though none of any length. It wasworth coming if only for the sake of the flowering trees which grewwild quite near the house, and the amazing colours of sea and earth.

　　The earth, instead of being brown, was red, purple, green. "You won'tbelieve me," she added, "there is no colour like it in England."She adopted, indeed, a condescending tone towards that poor island,which was now advancing chilly crocuses and nipped violets in nooks,in copses, in cosy corners, tended by rosy old gardeners in mufflers,who were always touching their hats and bobbing obsequiously.

　　She went on to deride the islanders themselves. Rumours of London allin a ferment over a General Election had reached them even out here.

　　"It seems incredible," she went on, "that people should care whetherAsquith is in or Austen Chamberlin out, and while you scream yourselveshoarse about politics you let the only people who are trying forsomething good starve or simply laugh at them. When have you everencouraged a living artist? Or bought his best work? Why are youall so ugly and so servile? Here the servants are human beings.

　　They talk to one as if they were equals. As far as I can tell thereare no aristocrats."Perhaps it was the mention of aristocrats that reminded her ofRichard Dalloway and Rachel, for she ran on with the same penfulto describe her niece.

　　"It's an odd fate that has put me in charge of a girl," she wrote,"considering that I have never got on well with women, or had muchto do with them. However, I must retract some of the things that Ihave said against them. If they were properly educated I don't seewhy they shouldn't be much the same as men--as satisfactory I mean;though, of course, very different. The question is, how shouldone educate them. The present method seems to me abominable.

　　This girl, though twenty-four, had never heard that men desired women,and, until I explained it, did not know how children were born.

　　Her ignorance upon other matters as important" (here Mrs. Ambrose'sletter may not be quoted) . . ."was complete. It seems to me notmerely foolish but criminal to bring people up like that. Let alonethe suffering to them, it explains why women are what they are--the wonder is they're no worse. I have taken it upon myselfto enlighten her, and now, though still a good deal prejudiced andliable to exaggerate, she is more or less a reasonable human being.

　　Keeping them ignorant, of course, defeats its own object, and whenthey begin to understand they take it all much too seriously.

　　My brother-in-law really deserved a catastrophe--which he won't get.

　　I now pray for a young man to come to my help; some one, I mean,who would talk to her openly, and prove how absurd most of her ideasabout life are. Unluckily such men seem almost as rare as the women.

　　The English colony certainly doesn't provide one; artists, merchants,cultivated people--they are stupid, conventional, and flirtatious.

　　. . ." She ceased, and with her pen in her hand sat looking intothe fire, making the logs into caves and mountains, for it had growntoo dark to go on writing. Moreover, the house began to stir asthe hour of dinner approached; she could hear the plates being chinkedin the dining-room next door, and Chailey instructing the Spanishgirl where to put things down in vigorous English. The bell rang;she rose, met Ridley and Rachel outside, and they all went into dinner.

　　Three months had made but little difference in the appearance eitherof Ridley or Rachel; yet a keen observer might have thought that the girlwas more definite and self-confident in her manner than before.

　　Her skin was brown, her eyes certainly brighter, and she attendedto what was said as though she might be going to contradict it.

　　The meal began with the comfortable silence of people who are quiteat their ease together. Then Ridley, leaning on his elbow and lookingout of the window, observed that it was a lovely night.

　　"Yes," said Helen. She added, "The season's begun," looking atthe lights beneath them. She asked Maria in Spanish whether the hotelwas not filling up with visitors. Maria informed her with pridethat there would come a time when it was positively difficultto buy eggs--the shopkeepers would not mind what prices they asked;they would get them, at any rate, from the English.

　　"That's an English steamer in the bay," said Rachel, looking ata triangle of lights below. "She came in early this morning.""Then we may hope for some letters and send ours back," said Helen.

　　For some reason the mention of letters always made Ridley groan,and the rest of the meal passed in a brisk argument between husbandand wife as to whether he was or was not wholly ignored by the entirecivilised world.

　　"Considering the last batch," said Helen, "you deserve beating.

　　You were asked to lecture, you were offered a degree, and some sillywoman praised not only your books but your beauty--she said he was whatShelley would have been if Shelley had lived to fifty-five and growna beard. Really, Ridley, I think you're the vainest man I know,"she ended, rising from the table, "which I may tell you is sayinga good deal."Finding her letter lying before the fire she added a few lines to it,and then announced that she was going to take the letters now--Ridley must bring his--and Rachel?

　　"I hope you've written to your Aunts? It's high time."The women put on cloaks and hats, and after inviting Ridley to comewith them, which he emphatically refused to do, exclaiming thatRachel he expected to be a fool, but Helen surely knew better,they turned to go. He stood over the fire gazing into the depthsof the looking-glass, and compressing his face into the likenessof a commander surveying a field of battle, or a martyr watchingthe flames lick his toes, rather than that of a secluded Professor.

　　Helen laid hold of his beard.

　　"Am I a fool?" she said.

　　"Let me go, Helen.""Am I a fool?" she repeated.

　　"Vile woman!" he exclaimed, and kissed her.

　　"We'll leave you to your vanities," she called back as they wentout of the door.

　　It was a beautiful evening, still light enough to see a long waydown the road, though the stars were coming out. The pillar-boxwas let into a high yellow wall where the lane met the road,and having dropped the letters into it, Helen was for turning back.

　　"No, no," said Rachel, taking her by the wrist. "We're goingto see life. You promised.""Seeing life" was the phrase they used for their habit of strollingthrough the town after dark. The social life of Santa Marinawas carried on almost en............