was almost too well dressed always,but presumably had to be,with his little job at Court)that his wife had some internal ailment,nothing serious,which,as an old friend,Clarissa Dalloway would quite understand without requiring him to specify.Ah yes,she did of course;what a nuisance;and felt very sisterly and oddly conscious at the same time of her hat.Not the right hat for the early morning,was that it?For Hugh always made her feel,as he bustled on,raising his hat rather extravagantly and assuring her that she might be a girl of eighteen,and of course he was coming to her party to-night,Evelyn absolutely insisted, only a little late he might be after the party at the Palace to which he had to take one of Jim's boys,-she always felt a little skimpy beside Hugh;schoolgirlish;but attached to him,partly from having known him always,but she did think him a good sort in his own way,though Richard was nearly driven mad by him,and as for Peter Walsh,he had never to this day forgiven her for liking him. She could remember scene after scene at Bourton-Peter furious;Hugh not, of course,his match in any way,but still not a positive imbecile as Peter made out;not a mere barber's block.When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it,without a word;he was really unselfish,and as for saying,as Peter did,that he had no heart, no brain,nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst;and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible;but adorable to walk with on a morning like this. (June had drawn out every leaf on the trees.The mothers of Pimlico gave suck to their young.Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly,brilliantly,on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved.To dance,to ride,she had adored all that. For they might be parted for hundreds of years,she and Peter;she never wrote a letter and his were dry sticks;but suddenly it would come over her,If he were with me now what would he say?-some days,some sights bringing him back to her calmly,without the old bitterness;which perhaps was the reward of having cared for people;they came back in the middle of St.James's Park on a fine morning-indeed they did.But Peter-however beautiful the day might be,and the trees and the grass,and the little girl in pink-Peter never saw a thing of all that.He would put on his spectacles,if she told him to;he would look.It was the state of the world that interested him;Wagner,Pope's poetry,people's characters eternally,and the defects of her own soul.How he scolded her!How they argued!She would marry a Prime Minister and stand at the top of a staircase; the perfect hostess he called her (she had cried over it in her bedroom), she had the makings of the perfect hostess,he said. 33 was almost too well dressed always, but presumably had to be, with his little job at Court) that his wife had some internal ailment, nothing serious, which, as an old friend, Clarissa Dalloway would quite understand without requiring him to specify. Ah yes, she did of course; what a nuisance; and felt very sisterly and oddly conscious at the same time of her hat. Not the right hat for the early morning, was that it? For Hugh always made her feel, as he bustled on, raising his hat rather extravagantly and assuring her that she might be a girl of eighteen, and of course he was coming to her party to-night, Evelyn absolutely insisted, only a little late he might be after the party at the Palace to which he had to take one of Jim's boys,—she always felt a little skimpy beside Hugh; schoolgirlish; but attached to him, partly from having known him always, but she did think him a good sort in his own way, though Richard was nearly driven mad by him, and as for Peter Walsh, he had never to this day forgiven her for liking him. She could remember scene after scene at Bourton—Peter furious; Hugh not, of course, his match in any way, but still not a positive imbecile as Peter made out; not a mere barber's block. When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it, without a word; he was really unselfish, and as for saying, as Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this. (June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Pimlico gave suck to their young. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. To dance, to ride, she had adored all that.) For they might be parted for hundreds of years, she and Peter; she never wrote a letter and his were dry sticks; but suddenly it would come over her, If he were with me now what would he say?—some days, some sights bringing him back to her calmly, without the old bitterness; which perhaps was the reward of having cared for people; they came back in the middle of St. James's Park on a fine morning—indeed they did. But Peter—however beautiful the day might be, and the trees and the grass, and the little girl in pink—Peter never saw a thing of all that. He would put on his spectacles, if she told him to; he would look. It was the state of the world that interested him; Wagner, Pope's poetry, people's characters eternally, and the defects of her own soul. How he scolded her! How they argued! She would marry a Prime Minister and stand at the top of a staircase; the perfect hostess he called her (she had cried over it in her bedroom), she had the makings of the perfect hostess, he said