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other thing； which is bigger and much more important and yet remains the same thing。 If one looks at the Serpentine in this state of mind； the waves soon bee just as big as the waves on the Atlantic； the toy boats bee indistinguishable from ocean liners。 So Orlando mistook the toy boat for her husband’s brig； and the wave she had made with her toe for a mountain of water off Cape Horn； and as she watched the toy boat climb the ripple； she thought she saw Bonthrop’s ship climb up and up a glassy wall； up and up it went； and a white crest with a thousand deaths in it arched over it； and through the thousand deaths it went and disappeared—’It’s sunk！’ she cried out in an agony—and then； behold； there it was again sailing along safe and sound among the ducks on the other side of the Atlantic。
‘Ecstasy！’ she cried。 ‘Ecstasy！ Where’s the post office？’ she wondered。 ‘For I must wire at once to Shel and tell him。。。’ And repeating ‘A toy boat on the Serpentine’； and ‘Ecstasy’； alternately； for the thoughts were interchangeable and meant exactly the same thing； she hurried towards Park Lane。
‘A toy boat； a toy boat； a toy boat；’ she repeated； thus enforcing upon herself the fact that it is not articles by Nick Greene on John Donne nor eight–hour bills nor covenants nor factory acts that matter； it’s something useless； sudden； violent； something that costs a life； red； blue； purple； a spirit； a splash； like those hyacinths （she was passing a fine bed of them）； free from taint； dependence； soilure of humanity or care for one’s kind； something rash； ridiculous； like my hyacinth； husband I mean； Bonthrop： that’s what it is—a toy boat on the Serpentine； ecstasy—it’s ecstasy that matters。 Thus she spoke aloud； waiting for the carriages to pass at Stanhope Gate； for the consequence of not living with one’s husband； except when the wind is sunk； is that one talks nonsense aloud in Park Lane。 It would no doubt have been different had she lived all the year round with him as Queen Victoria remended。 As it was the thought of him would e upon her in a flash。 She found it absolutely necessary to speak to him instantly。 She did not care in the least what nonsense it might make； or what dislocation it might inflict on the narrative。 Nick Greene’s article had plunged her in the depths of despair； the toy boat had raised her to the heights of joy。 So she repeated： ‘Ecstasy； ecstasy’； as she stood waiting to cross。
But the traffic was heavy that spring afternoon； and kept her standing there； repeating； ecstasy； ecstasy； or a toy boat on the Serpentine； while the wealth and power of England sat； as if sculptured； in hat and cloak； in four–in–hand； victoria and barouche landau。 It was as if a golden river had coagulated and massed itself in golden blocks across Park Lane。 The ladies held card–cases between their fingers； the gentlemen balanced gold–mounted canes between their knees。 She stood there gazing； admiring； awe–struck。 One thought only disturbed her； a thought familiar to all who behold great elephants； or whales of an incredible magnitude； and that is： how do these leviathans to whom obviously stress； change； and activity are repugnant； propagate their kind？ Perhaps； Orlando thought； looking at the stately； still faces； their time of propagation is over； this is the fruit； this is the consummation。 What she now beheld was the triumph of an age。 Portly and splendid there they sat。 But now； the policeman let fall his hand； the stream became liquid； the massive conglomeration of splendid objects moved； dispersed； and disappeared into Piccadilly。
So she crossed Park Lane and went to her house in Curzon Street； where； when the meadow–sweet blew there； she could remember curlew calling and one very old man with a gun。
She could remember； she thought； stepping across the threshold of her house； how Lord Chesterfield had said—but her memory was checked。 Her discreet eighteenth–century hall； where she could see Lord Chesterfield putting his hat down here and his coat down there with an elegance of deportment which it was a pleasure to watch； was now pletely littered with parcels。 While she had been sitting in Hyde Park the bookseller had delivered her order； and the house was crammed—there were parcels slipping down the staircase—with the whole of Victorian literature done up in grey paper and neatly tied with string。 She carried as many of these packets as she could to her room； ordered footmen to bring the others； and； rapidly cutting innumerable strings； was soon surrounded by innumerable volumes。
Accustomed to the little literatures of the sixteenth； seventeenth； and eighteenth centuries； Orlando was appalled by the consequences of her order。 For； of course； to the Victorians themselves Victorian literature meant not merely four great names separate and distinct but four great names sunk and embedded in a mass of Alexander Smiths； Dixons； Blacks； Milmans； Buckles； Taines； Paynes； Tuppers； Jamesons—all vocal； clamorous； prominent； and requiring as much attention as anybody else。 Orlando’s reverence for print had a tough job set before it but drawing her chair to the window to get the benefit of what light might filter between the high houses of Mayfair； she tried to e to a conclusion。
And now it was clear that there are only two ways of ing to a conclusion upon Victorian literature—one is to write it out in sixty volumes octavo； the other is to squeeze it into six lines of the length of this one。 Of the two courses； economy； since time runs short； leads us to choose the second； and so we proceed。 Orlando then came to the conclusion （opening half–a–dozen books） that it was very odd that there was not a single dedication to a nobleman among them； next （turning over a vast pile of memoirs） that several of these writers had family trees half as high as her own； next； that it would be impolitic in the extreme to wrap a ten–pound note round the sugar tongs when Miss Christina Rossetti came to tea； next （here were half–a–dozen invitations to celebrate centenaries by dining） that literature since it ate all these dinners must be growing very corpulent； next （she was invited to a score of lec