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violently into her head； she went straight to the nearest telegraph office and wired to him。 There was one； as it happened； close at hand。 ‘My God Shel’； she wired； ‘life literature Greene toady—’ here she dropped into a cypher language which they had invented between them so that a whole spiritual state of the utmost plexity might be conveyed in a word or two without the telegraph clerk being any wiser； and added the words ‘Rattigan Glumphoboo’； which summed it up precisely。 For not only had the events of the morning made a deep impression on her； but it cannot have escaped the reader’s attention that Orlando was growing up—which is not necessarily growing better—and ‘Rattigan Glumphoboo’ described a very plicated spiritual state—which if the reader puts all his intelligence at our service he may discover for himself。
There could be no answer to her telegram for some hours； indeed； it was probable； she thought； glancing at the sky； where the upper clouds raced swiftly past； that there was a gale at Cape Horn； so that her husband would be at the mast–head； as likely as not； or cutting away some tattered spar； or even alone in a boat with a biscuit。 And so； leaving the post office； she turned to beguile herself into the next shop； which was a shop so mon in our day that it needs no description； yet； to her eyes； strange in the extreme； a shop where they sold books。 All her life long Orlando had known manuscripts； she had held in her hands the rough brown sheets on which Spenser had written in his little crabbed hand； she had seen Shakespeare’s script and Milton’s。 She owned； indeed； a fair number of quartos and folios； often with a son in her praise in them and sometimes a lock of hair。 But these innumerable little volumes； bright； identical； ephemeral； for they seemed bound in cardboard and printed on tissue paper； surprised her infinitely。 The whole works of Shakespeare cost half a crown； and could be put in your pocket。 One could hardly read them； indeed； the print was so small； but it was a marvel； none the less。 ‘Works’—the works of every writer she had known or heard of and many more stretched from end to end of the long shelves。 On tables and chairs； more ‘works’ were piled and tumbled； and these she saw； turning a page or two； were often works about other works by Sir Nicholas and a score of others whom； in her ignorance； she supposed； since they were bound and printed； to be very great writers too。 So she gave an astounding order to the bookseller to send her everything of any importance in the shop and left。
She turned into Hyde Park； which she had known of old （beneath that cleft tree； she remembered； the Duke of Hamilton fell run through the body by Lord Mohun）； and her lips； which are often to blame in the matter； began framing the words of her telegram into a senseless singsong； life literature Greene toady Rattigan Glumphoboo； so that several park keepers looked at her with suspicion and were only brought to a favourable opinion of her sanity by noticing the pearl necklace which she wore。 She had carried off a sheaf of papers and critical journals from the book shop； and at length； flinging herself on her elbow beneath a tree； she spread these pages round her and did her best to fathom the noble art of prose position as these masters practised it。 For still the old credulity was alive in her； even the blurred type of a weekly newspaper had some sanctity in her eyes。 So she read； lying on her elbow； an article by Sir Nicholas on the collected works of a man she had once known—John Donne。 But she had pitched herself； without knowing it； not far from the Serpentine。 The barking of a thousand dogs sounded in her ears。 Carriage wheels rushed ceaselessly in a circle。 Leaves sighed overhead。 Now and again a braided skirt and a pair of tight scarlet trousers crossed the grass within a few steps of her。 Once a gigantic rubber ball bounced on the newspaper。 Violets； oranges； reds； and blues broke through the interstices of the leaves and sparkled in the emerald on her finger。 She read a sentence and looked up at the sky； she looked up at the sky and looked down at the newspaper。 Life？ Literature？ One to be made into the other？ But how monstrously difficult！ For—here came by a pair of tight scarlet trousers—how would Addison have put that？ Here came two dogs dancing on their hind legs。 How would Lamb have described that？ For reading Sir Nicholas and his friends （as she did in the intervals of looking about her）； she somehow got the impression—here she rose and walked—they made one feel—it was an extremely unfortable feeling—one must never； never say what one thought。 （She stood on the banks of the Serpentine。 It was a bronze colour； spider–thin boats were skimming from side to side。） They made one feel； she continued； that one must always； always write like somebody else。 （The tears formed themselves in her eyes。） For really； she thought； pushing a little boat off with her toe； I don’t think I could （here the whole of Sir Nicholas’ article came before her as articles do； ten minutes after they are read； with the look of his room； his head； his cat； his writing–table； and the time of the day thrown in）； I don’t think I could； she continued； considering the article from this point of view； sit in a study； no； it’s not a study； it’s a mouldy kind of drawing–room； all day long； and talk to pretty young men； and tell them little anecdotes； which they mustn’t repeat； about what Tupper said about Smiles； and then； she continued； weeping bitterly； they’re all so manly； and then； I do detest Duchesses； and I don’t like cake； and though I’m spiteful enough； I could never learn to be as spiteful as all that； so how can I be a critic and write the best English prose of my time？ Damn it all！ she exclaimed； launching a penny steamer so vigorously that the poor little boat almost sank in the bronze–coloured waves。
Now； the truth is that when one has been in a state of mind （as nurses call it）—and the tears still stood in Orlando’s eyes—the thing one is looking at bees； not itself； but another thing； which is bigger and much more important and yet remains the same thing。 If one looks at