She had a dull errand in the town; she had aletter or two to write; she would be ten minutesperhaps; she would put on her hat. And, withher basket and her parasol, there she was again,ten minutes later, giving out a sense of beingready, of being equipped for a jaunt, which, how-ever, she must interrupt for a moment, as theypassed the tennis lawn, to ask Mr. Carmichael,who was basking with his yellow cat’s eyes ajar,so that like a cat’s they seemed to reflect thebranches moving or the clouds passing, but togive no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotionwhatsoever, if he wanted anything.

   For they were making the great expedition,she said, laughing. They were going to thetown. "Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco?" shesuggested, stopping by his side. But no, hewanted nothing. His hands clasped themselvesover his capacious paunch, his eyes blinked, asif he would have liked to reply kindly to theseblandishments (she was seductive but a littlenervous) but could not, sunk as he was in a grey-green somnolence which embraced them all,without need of words, in a vast and benevolentlethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all theworld; all the people in it, for he had slipped into21