After
meditatively tearing up her note to Messrs. Rose and Thorn, she lowered
the bureau lid and left the room.
Mounting the stairs, whose old oak banisters on either side were a real
joy, she felt she was stupid to let vague, sordid rumours, which,
after all, affected her but indirectly, disturb her morning's work. And
entering Stephen's dressing-room she stood looking at his boots.
Inside each one of them was a wooden soul; none had any creases, none
had any holes. The moment they wore out, their wooden souls were taken
from them and their bodies given to the poor, whilst--in accordance with
that theory, to hear a course of lectures on which a scattered thought
was even now inviting her--the wooden souls migrated instantly to other
leathern bodies.
Looking at that polished row of boots, Cecilia felt lonely and
unsatisfied. Stephen worked in the Law Courts, Thyme worked at Art;
both were doing something definite. She alone, it seemed, had to wait at
home, and order dinner, answer letters, shop, pay calls, and do a dozen
things that failed to stop her thoughts from dwelling on that woman's
tale. She was not often conscious of the nature of her life, so like the
lives of many hundred women in this London, which she said she could
not stand, but which she stood very well. As a rule, with practical good
sense, she kept her doubting eyes fixed friendlily on every little
phase in turn, enjoying well enough fitting the Chinese puzzle of her
scattered thoughts, setting out on each small adventure with a certain
cautious zest, and taking Stephen with her as far as he allowed.
Pages:
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87