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stuffs puffed out by a summer breeze。 She took a list from her bag and began reading in a curious stiff voice at first； as if she were holding the words—boy’s boots； bath salts； sardines—under a tap of many–coloured water。 She watched them change as the light fell on them。 Bath and boots became blunt； obtuse； sardines serrated itself like a saw。 So she stood in the ground–floor department of Messrs Marshall & Snelgrove； looked this way and that； snuffed this smell and that and thus wasted some seconds。 Then she got into the lift； for the good reason that the door stood open； and was shot smoothly upwards。 The very fabric of life now； she thought as she rose； is magic。 In the eighteenth century we knew how everything was done； but here I rise through the air； I listen to voices in America； I see men flying—but how its done I can’t even begin to wonder。 So my belief in magic returns。 Now the lift gave a little jerk as it stopped at the first floor； and she had a vision of innumerable coloured stuffs flaunting in a breeze from which came distinct； strange smells； and each time the lift stopped and flung its doors open； there was another slice of the world displayed with all the smells of that world clinging to it。 She was reminded of the river off Wapping in the time of Elizabeth； where the treasure ships and the merchant ships used to anchor。 How richly and curiously they had smelt！ How well she remembered the feel of rough rubies running through her fingers when she dabbled them in a treasure sack！ And then lying with Sukey—or whatever her name was—and having Cumberland’s lantern flashed on them！ The Cumberlands had a house in Portland Place now and she had lunched with them the other day and ventured a little joke with the old man about almshouses in the Sheen Road。 He had winked。 But here as the lift could go no higher； she must get out—Heaven knows into what ‘department’ as they called it。 She stood still to consult her shopping list； but was blessed if she could see； as the list bade her； bath salts； or boy’s boots anywhere about。 And indeed； she was about to descend again； without buying anything； but was saved from that outrage by saying aloud automatically the last item on her list； which happened to be ‘sheets for a double bed’。
‘Sheets for a double bed；’ she said to a man at a counter and； by a dispensation of Providence； it was sheets that the man at that particular counter happened to sell。 For Grimsditch； no； Grimsditch was dead； Bartholomew； no； Bartholomew was dead； Louise then—Louise had e to her in a great taking the other day； for she had found a hole in the bottom of the sheet in the royal bed。 Many kings and queens had slept there—Elizabeth； James； Charles； George； Victoria； Edward； no wonder the sheet had a hole in it。 But Louise was positive she knew who had done it。 It was the Prince Consort。
‘Sale bosch！’ she said （for there had been another war； this time against the Germans）。
‘Sheets for a double bed；’ Orlando repeated dreamily； for a double bed with a silver counterpane in a room fitted in a taste which she now thought perhaps a little vulgar—all in silver； but she had furnished it when she had a passion for that metal。 While the man went to get sheets for a double bed； she took out a little looking–glass and a powder puff。 Women were not nearly as roundabout in their ways； she thought； powdering herself with the greatest unconcern； as they had been when she herself first turned woman and lay on the deck of the “Enamoured Lady”。 She gave her nose the right tint deliberately。 She never touched her cheeks。 Honestly； though she was now thirty–six； she scarcely looked a day older。 She looked just as pouting； as sulky； as handsome； as rosy （like a million–candled Christmas tree； Sasha had said） as she had done that day on the ice； when the Thames was frozen and they had gone skating—
‘The best Irish linen； Ma’am；’ said the shopman； spreading the sheets on the counter；—and they had met an old woman picking up sticks。 Here； as she was fingering the linen abstractedly； one of the swing–doors between the departments opened and let through； perhaps from the fancy–goods department； a whiff of scent； waxen； tinted as if from pink candles； and the scent curved like a shell round a figure—was it a boy’s or was it a girl’s—young； slender； seductive—a girl； by God！ furred； pearled； in Russian trousers； but faithless； faithless！
‘Faithless！’ cried Orlando （the man had gone） and all the shop seemed to pitch and toss with yellow water and far off she saw the masts of the Russian ship standing out to sea； and then； miraculously （perhaps the door opened again） the conch which the scent had made became a platform； a dais； off which stepped a fat； furred woman； marvellously well preserved； seductive； diademed； a Grand Duke’s mistress； she who； leaning over the banks of the Volga； eating sandwiches； had watched men drown； and began walking down the shop towards her。
‘Oh Sasha！’ Orlando cried。 Really； she was shocked that she should have e to this； she had grown so fat； so lethargic； and she bowed her head over the linen so that this apparition of a grey woman in fur； and a girl in Russian trousers； with all these smells of wax candles； white flowers； and old ships that it brought with it might pass behind her back unseen。
‘Any napkins； towels； dusters today； Ma’am？’ the shopman persisted。 And it is enormously to the credit of the shopping list； which Orlando now consulted； that she was able to reply with every appearance of posure； that there was only one thing in the world she wanted and that was bath salts； which was in another department。
But descending in the lift again—so insidious is the repetition of any scene—she was again sunk far beneath the present moment； and thought when the lift bumped on the ground； that she heard a pot broken against a river bank。 As for finding the right department； whatever it might be； she stood engrossed among the handbags； deaf to the suggestions of all the polite； black； bed； sprightly shop assistants； who descending as they did equally and some of them； perhaps； as proudly； even from such depths of the past as s