It became painful to Rachel to be one of those who write Keats and Shelley. She liked Richard Dalloway, and warmed as he warmed. He seemed to mean what he said.
«I know nothing!» she exclaimed.
«It›s far better that you should know nothing,» he said paternally, «and you wrong yourself, I›m sure. You play very nicely, I›m told, and I›ve no doubt you›ve read heaps of learned books.»
Elderly banter would no longer check her.
«You talk of unity,» she said. «You ought to make me understand.»
«I never allow my wife to talk politics,» he said seriously. «For this reason. It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals. If I have preserved mine, as I am thankful to say that in great measure I have, it is due to the fact that I have been able to com
