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- Вирджиния Вульф
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It
was
odd
;
it
was
true
;
lots
of
people
felt
it
.
Peter
Walsh
,
who
had
done
just
respectably
,
filled
the
usual
posts
adequately
,
was
liked
,
but
thought
a
little
cranky
,
gave
himself
airs
--
it
was
odd
that
HE
should
have
had
,
especially
now
that
his
hair
was
grey
,
a
contented
look
;
a
look
of
having
reserves
.
It
was
this
that
made
him
attractive
to
women
who
liked
the
sense
that
he
was
not
altogether
manly
.
There
was
something
unusual
about
him
,
or
something
behind
him
.
It
might
be
that
he
was
bookish
--
never
came
to
see
you
without
taking
up
the
book
on
the
table
(
he
was
now
reading
,
with
his
bootlaces
trailing
on
the
floor
)
;
or
that
he
was
a
gentleman
,
which
showed
itself
in
the
way
he
knocked
the
ashes
out
of
his
pipe
,
and
in
his
manners
of
course
to
women
.
For
it
was
very
charming
and
quite
ridiculous
how
easily
some
girl
without
a
grain
of
sense
could
twist
him
round
her
finger
.
But
at
her
own
risk
.
That
is
to
say
,
though
he
might
be
ever
so
easy
,
and
indeed
with
his
gaiety
and
good-breeding
fascinating
to
be
with
,
it
was
only
up
to
a
point
.
She
said
something
--
no
,
no
;
he
saw
through
that
.
He
would
n't
stand
that
--
no
,
no
.
Then
he
could
shout
and
rock
and
hold
his
sides
together
over
some
joke
with
men
.
He
was
the
best
judge
of
cooking
in
India
.
He
was
a
man
.
But
not
the
sort
of
man
one
had
to
respect
--
which
was
a
mercy
;
not
like
Major
Simmons
,
for
instance
;
not
in
the
least
like
that
,
Daisy
thought
,
when
,
in
spite
of
her
two
small
children
,
she
used
to
compare
them
.
He
pulled
off
his
boots
.
He
emptied
his
pockets
.
Out
came
with
his
pocket-knife
a
snapshot
of
Daisy
on
the
verandah
;
Daisy
all
in
white
,
with
a
fox-terrier
on
her
knee
;
very
charming
,
very
dark
;
the
best
he
had
ever
seen
of
her
.
It
did
come
,
after
all
so
naturally
;
so
much
more
naturally
than
Clarissa
.
No
fuss
.
No
bother
.
No
finicking
and
fidgeting
.
All
plain
sailing
.
And
the
dark
,
adorably
pretty
girl
on
the
verandah
exclaimed
(
he
could
hear
her
)
.
Of
course
,
of
course
she
would
give
him
everything
!
she
cried
(
she
had
no
sense
of
discretion
)
everything
he
wanted
!
she
cried
,
running
to
meet
him
,
whoever
might
be
looking
.
And
she
was
only
twenty-four
.
And
she
had
two
children
.
Well
,
well
!
Well
indeed
he
had
got
himself
into
a
mess
at
his
age
.
And
it
came
over
him
when
he
woke
in
the
night
pretty
forcibly
.
Suppose
they
did
marry
?
For
him
it
would
be
all
very
well
,
but
what
about
her
?
Mrs.
Burgess
,
a
good
sort
and
no
chatterbox
,
in
whom
he
had
confided
,
thought
this
absence
of
his
in
England
,
ostensibly
to
see
lawyers
might
serve
to
make
Daisy
reconsider
,
think
what
it
meant
.
It
was
a
question
of
her
position
,
Mrs.
Burgess
said
;
the
social
barrier
;
giving
up
her
children
.
She
'd
be
a
widow
with
a
past
one
of
these
days
,
draggling
about
in
the
suburbs
,
or
more
likely
,
indiscriminate
(
you
know
,
she
said
,
what
such
women
get
like
,
with
too
much
paint
)
.
But
Peter
Walsh
pooh-poohed
all
that
.
He
did
n't
mean
to
die
yet
.
Anyhow
she
must
settle
for
herself
;
judge
for
herself
,
he
thought
,
padding
about
the
room
in
his
socks
,
smoothing
out
his
dress-shirt
,
for
he
might
go
to
Clarissa
's
party
,
or
he
might
go
to
one
of
the
Halls
,
or
he
might
settle
in
and
read
an
absorbing
book
written
by
a
man
he
used
to
know
at
Oxford
.
And
if
he
did
retire
,
that
's
what
he
'd
do
--
write
books
.
He
would
go
to
Oxford
and
poke
about
in
the
Bodleian
.
Vainly
the
dark
,
adorably
pretty
girl
ran
to
the
end
of
the
terrace
;
vainly
waved
her
hand
;
vainly
cried
she
did
n't
care
a
straw
what
people
said
.
There
he
was
,
the
man
she
thought
the
world
of
,
the
perfect
gentleman
,
the
fascinating
,
the
distinguished
(
and
his
age
made
not
the
least
difference
to
her
)
,
padding
about
a
room
in
an
hotel
in
Bloomsbury
,
shaving
,
washing
,
continuing
,
as
he
took
up
cans
,
put
down
razors
,
to
poke
about
in
the
Bodleian
,
and
get
at
the
truth
about
one
or
two
little
matters
that
interested
him
.
And
he
would
have
a
chat
with
whoever
it
might
be
,
and
so
come
to
disregard
more
and
more
precise
hours
for
lunch
,
and
miss
engagements
,
and
when
Daisy
asked
him
,
as
she
would
,
for
a
kiss
,
a
scene
,
fail
to
come
up
to
the
scratch
(
though
he
was
genuinely
devoted
to
her
)
--
in
short
it
might
be
happier
,
as
Mrs.
Burgess
said
,
that
she
should
forget
him
,
or
merely
remember
him
as
he
was
in
August
1922
,
like
a
figure
standing
at
the
cross
roads
at
dusk
,
which
grows
more
and
more
remote
as
the
dog-cart
spins
away
,
carrying
her
securely
fastened
to
the
back
seat
,
though
her
arms
are
outstretched
,
and
as
she
sees
the
figure
dwindle
and
disappear
still
she
cries
out
how
she
would
do
anything
in
the
world
,
anything
,
anything
,
anything
...
He
never
knew
what
people
thought
.
It
became
more
and
more
difficult
for
him
to
concentrate
.
He
became
absorbed
;
he
became
busied
with
his
own
concerns
;
now
surly
,
now
gay
;
dependent
on
women
,
absent-minded
,
moody
,
less
and
less
able
(
so
he
thought
as
he
shaved
)
to
understand
why
Clarissa
could
n't
simply
find
them
a
lodging
and
be
nice
to
Daisy
;
introduce
her
.
And
then
he
could
just
--
just
do
what
?
just
haunt
and
hover
(
he
was
at
the
moment
actually
engaged
in
sorting
out
various
keys
,
papers
)
,
swoop
and
taste
,
be
alone
,
in
short
,
sufficient
to
himself
;
and
yet
nobody
of
course
was
more
dependent
upon
others
(
he
buttoned
his
waistcoat
)
;
it
had
been
his
undoing
.
He
could
not
keep
out
of
smoking-rooms
,
liked
colonels
,
liked
golf
,
liked
bridge
,
and
above
all
women
's
society
,
and
the
fineness
of
their
companionship
,
and
their
faithfulness
and
audacity
and
greatness
in
loving
which
though
it
had
its
drawbacks
seemed
to
him
(
and
the
dark
,
adorably
pretty
face
was
on
top
of
the
envelopes
)
so
wholly
admirable
,
so
splendid
a
flower
to
grow
on
the
crest
of
human
life
,
and
yet
he
could
not
come
up
to
the
scratch
,
being
always
apt
to
see
round
things
(
Clarissa
had
sapped
something
in
him
permanently
)
,
and
to
tire
very
easily
of
mute
devotion
and
to
want
variety
in
love
,
though
it
would
make
him
furious
if
Daisy
loved
anybody
else
,
furious
!
for
he
was
jealous
,
uncontrollably
jealous
by
temperament
.
He
suffered
tortures
!
But
where
was
his
knife
;
his
watch
;
his
seals
,
his
note-case
,
and
Clarissa
's
letter
which
he
would
not
read
again
but
liked
to
think
of
,
and
Daisy
's
photograph
?
And
now
for
dinner
.
They
were
eating
.
Sitting
at
little
tables
round
vases
,
dressed
or
not
dressed
,
with
their
shawls
and
bags
laid
beside
them
,
with
their
air
of
false
composure
,
for
they
were
not
used
to
so
many
courses
at
dinner
,
and
confidence
,
for
they
were
able
to
pay
for
it
,
and
strain
,
for
they
had
been
running
about
London
all
day
shopping
,
sightseeing
;
and
their
natural
curiosity
,
for
they
looked
round
and
up
as
the
nice-looking
gentleman
in
horn-rimmed
spectacles
came
in
,
and
their
good
nature
,
for
they
would
have
been
glad
to
do
any
little
service
,
such
as
lend
a
time-table
or
impart
useful
information
,
and
their
desire
,
pulsing
in
them
,
tugging
at
them
subterraneously
,
somehow
to
establish
connections
if
it
were
only
a
birthplace
(
Liverpool
,
for
example
)
in
common
or
friends
of
the
same
name
;
with
their
furtive
glances
,
odd
silences
,
and
sudden
withdrawals
into
family
jocularity
and
isolation
;
there
they
sat
eating
dinner
when
Mr.
Walsh
came
in
and
took
his
seat
at
a
little
table
by
the
curtain
.
