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‘He sat at Twitchett’s table；’ she mused； ‘with a dirty ruff on。。。Was it old Mr Baker e to measure the timber？ Or was it Sh–p—re？ （for when we speak names we deeply reverence to ourselves we never speak them whole。） She gazed for ten minutes ahead of her； letting the car e almost to a standstill。
‘Haunted！’ she cried； suddenly pressing the accelerator。 ‘Haunted！ ever since I was a child。 There flies the wild goose。 It flies past the window out to sea。 Up I jumped （she gripped the steering–wheel tighter） and stretched after it。 But the goose flies too fast。 I’ve seen it； here—there—there—England； Persia； Italy。 Always it flies fast out to sea and always I fling after it words like s （here she flung her hand out） which shrivel as I’ve seen s shrivel drawn on deck with only sea–weed in them； and sometimes there’s an inch of silver—six words—in the bottom of the 。 But never the great fish who lives in the coral groves。’ Here she bent her head； pondering deeply。
And it was at this moment； when she had ceased to call ‘Orlando’ and was deep in thoughts of something else； that the Orlando whom she had called came of its own accord； as was proved by the change that now came over her （she had passed through the lodge gates and was entering the park）。
The whole of her darkened and settled； as when some foil whose addition makes the round and solidity of a surface is added to it； and the shallow bees deep and the near distant； and all is contained as water is contained by the sides of a well。 So she was now darkened； stilled； and bee； with the addition of this Orlando； what is called； rightly or wrongly； a single self； a real self。 And she fell silent。 For it is probable that when people talk aloud； the selves （of which there may be more than two thousand） are conscious of disseverment； and are trying to municate； but when munication is established they fall silent。
Masterfully； swiftly； she drove up the curving drive between the elms and oaks through the falling turf of the park whose fall was so gentle that had it been water it would have spread the beach with a smooth green tide。 Planted here and in solemn groups were beech trees and oak trees。 The deer stepped among them； one white as snow； another with its head on one side； for some wire ting had caught in its horns。 All this； the trees； deer； and turf； she observed with the greatest satisfaction as if her mind had bee a fluid that flowed round things and enclosed them pletely。 Next minute she drew up in the courtyard where； for so many hundred years she had e； on horseback or in coach and six； with men riding before or ing after； where plumes had tossed； torches flashed； and the same flowering trees that let their leaves drop now had shaken their blossoms。 Now she was alone。 The autumn leaves were falling。 The porter opened the great gates。 ‘Morning； James；’ she said； ‘there’re some things in the car。 Will you bring ‘em in？’ words of no beauty； interest； or significance themselves； it will be conceded； but now so plumped out with meaning that they fell like ripe nuts from a tree； and proved that when the shrivelled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning it satisfies the senses amazingly。 This was true indeed of every movement and action now； usual though they were； so that to see Orlando change her skirt for a pair of whipcord breeches and leather jacket； which she did in less than three minutes； was to be ravished with the beauty of movement as if Madame Lopokova were using her highest art。 Then she strode into the dining–room where her old friends Dryden； Pope； Swift； Addison regarded her demurely at first as who should say Here’s the prize winner！ but when they reflected that two hundred guineas was in question； they nodded their heads approvingly。 Two hundred guineas； they seemed to say； two hundred guineas are not to be sniffed at。 She cut herself a slice of bread and ham； clapped the two together and began to eat； striding up and down the room； thus shedding her pany habits in a second； without thinking。 After five or six such turns； she tossed off a glass of red Spanish wine； and； filling another which she carried in her hand； strode down the long corridor and through a dozen drawing–rooms and so began a perambulation of the house； attended by such elk–hounds and spaniels as chose to follow her。
This； too； was all in the day’s routine。 As soon would she e home and leave her own grandmother without a kiss as e back and leave the house unvisited。 She fancied that the rooms brightened as she came in； stirred； opened their eyes as if they had been dozing in her absence。 She fancied； too； that； hundreds and thousands of times as she had seen them； they never looked the same twice； as if so long a life as theirs had stored in them a myriad moods which changed with winter and summer； bright weather and dark； and her own fortunes and the people’s characters who visited them。 Polite； they always were to strangers； but a little weary： with her； they were entirely open and at their ease。 Why not indeed？ They had known each other for close on four centuries now。 They had nothing to conceal。 She knew their sorrows and joys。 She knew what age each part of them was and its little secrets—a hidden drawer； a concealed cupboard； or some deficiency perhaps； such as a part made up； or added later。 They； too； knew her in all her moods and changes。 She had hidden nothing from them； had e to them as boy and woman； crying and dancing； brooding and gay。 In this window–seat； she had written her first verses； in that chapel； she had been married。 And she would be buried here； she reflected； kneeling on the window–sill in the long gallery and sipping her Spanish wine。 Though she could hardly fancy it； the body of the heraldic leopard would be making yellow pools on the floor the day they lowered her to lie among her ancestors。 She； who believed in no immortality； could not help feeling that her soul would e and go forever with the reds on the panels and the greens on the sofa。 For the room—she had strolled into the Ambassador’s bedroom—shone like a shell that has lain at the bottom of the sea for centuries and has been crusted over and painted a million tints by the water； it was rose and yellow； green and sand–coloured。 It was frail as a shell； as iridescent and as empty。 No Ambassador would ever sleep there again。 Ah； but she knew where the heart of the house still beat。 Gently opening a door； she stood on the threshold so that （as she fancied） the room could not see her and watched the tapestry rising and falling on the eternal faint breeze which never failed to move it。 Still the hunter rode； still Daphne flew。 The heart still beat； she thought； however faintly； however far withdrawn； the frail indomitable heart of the immense building。
Now； calling her troop of dogs to her she passed down the gallery whose floor was laid with whole oak trees sawn across。 Rows of chairs with all their velvets faded stood ranged against the wall holding their arms out for Elizabeth； for James； for Shakespeare it might be； for Cecil； who never came。 The sight made her gloomy。 She unhooked the rope that fenced them off。 She sat on the Queen’s chair； she opened a manuscript book lying on Lady Betty’s table； she stirred her fingers in the aged rose leaves； she brushed her short hair with King James’ silver brushes： she bounced up and down upon his bed （but no King would ever sleep there again； for all Louise’s new sheets） and pressed her cheek against the worn silver counterpane that lay upon it。 But everywhere were little lavender bags to keep the moth out and printed notices； ‘Please do not touch’； which； though she had put them there herself； seemed to rebuke her。 The house was no longer hers entirely； she sighed。 It belonged to time now； to history； was past the touch and control of the living。 Never would beer be spilt here any more； she thought （she was in the bedroom that had been old Nick Greene’s）； or holes burnt in the carpet。 Never two hundred servants e running and brawling down the corridors with warming pans and great branches for the great fireplaces。 Never would ale be brewed and candles made and saddles fashioned and stone shaped in th