Therewerealsooneortwoportraitsoffathersandgrandmothers，andanengravingofJohnStuartMill，afterthepicturebyWatts。
Itwasaroomwithoutdefinitecharacter，beingneithertypicallyandopenlyhideous，norstrenuouslyartistic，norreallycomfortable。
Rachelrousedherselffromthecontemplationofthisfamiliarpicture。
“Butthisisn’tveryinterestingforyou，“shesaid，lookingup。
“GoodLord！“Hewetexclaimed。“I’veneverbeensomuchinterestedinmylife。“ShethenrealisedthatwhileshehadbeenthinkingofRichmond，hiseyeshadneverleftherface。Theknowledgeofthisexcitedher。
“Goon，pleasegoon，“heurged。“Let’simagineit’saWednesday。
You’reallatluncheon。Yousitthere，andAuntLucythere，andAuntClarahere“；hearrangedthreepebblesonthegrassbetweenthem。
“AuntClaracarvestheneckoflamb，“Rachelcontinued。
Shefixedhergazeuponthepebbles。“There’saveryuglyyellowchinastandinfrontofme，calledadumbwaiter，onwhicharethreedishes，oneforbiscuits，oneforbutter，andoneforcheese。
There’sapotofferns。Thenthere’sBlanchethemaid，whosnufflesbecauseofhernose。Wetalk——ohyes，it’sAuntLucy’safternoonatWalworth，sowe’reratherquickoverluncheon。Shegoesoff。
Shehasapurplebag，andablacknotebook。AuntClarahaswhattheycallaG。F。S。meetinginthedrawing-roomonWednesday，soItakethedogsout。IgoupRichmondHill，alongtheterrace，intothepark。It’sthe18thofApril——thesamedayasitishere。
It’sspringinEngland。Thegroundisratherdamp。However，Icrosstheroadandgetontothegrassandwewalkalong，andIsingasIalwaysdowhenI’malone，untilwecometotheopenplacewhereyoucanseethewholeofLondonbeneathyouonaclearday。
HampsteadChurchspirethere，WestminsterCathedraloverthere，andfactorychimneysabouthere。There’sgenerallyahazeoverthelowpartsofLondon；butit’softenblueovertheparkwhenLondon’sinamist。It’stheopenplacethattheballoonscrossgoingovertoHurlingham。They’repaleyellow。Well，then，itsmellsverygood，particularlyiftheyhappentobeburningwoodinthekeeper’slodgewhichisthere。Icouldtellyounowhowtogetfromplacetoplace，andexactlywhattreesyou’dpass，andwhereyou’dcrosstheroads。
Yousee，IplayedtherewhenIwassmall。Springisgood，butit’sbestintheautumnwhenthedeerarebarking；thenitgetsdusky，andIgobackthroughthestreets，andyoucan’tseepeopleproperly；
theycomepastveryquick，youjustseetheirfacesandthenthey’regone——that’swhatIlike——andnooneknowsintheleastwhatyou’redoing——“
“Butyouhavetobebackfortea，Isuppose？“Hewetcheckedher。
“Tea？Ohyes。Fiveo’clock。ThenIsaywhatI’vedone，andmyauntssaywhatthey’vedone，andperhapssomeonecomesin:
Mrs。Hunt，let’ssuppose。She’sanoldladywithalameleg。
Shehasorsheoncehadeightchildren；soweaskafterthem。
They’reallovertheworld；soweaskwheretheyare，andsometimesthey’reill，orthey’restationedinacholeradistrict，orinsomeplacewhereitonlyrainsonceinfivemonths。Mrs。Hunt，“
shesaidwithasmile，“hadasonwhowashuggedtodeathbyabear。“
HereshestoppedandlookedatHewettoseewhetherhewasamusedbythesamethingsthatamusedher。Shewasreassured。Butshethoughtitnecessarytoapologiseagain；shehadbeentalkingtoomuch。
“Youcan’tconceivehowitinterestsme，“hesaid。
Indeed，hiscigarettehadgoneout，andhehadtolightanother。
“Whydoesitinterestyou？“sheasked。
“Partlybecauseyou’reawoman，“hereplied。Whenhesaidthis，Rachel，whohadbecomeobliviousofanything，andhadrevertedtoachildlikestateofinterestandpleasure，lostherfreedomandbecameself-conscious。Shefeltherselfatoncesingularandunderobservation，asshefeltwithSt。JohnHirst。Shewasabouttolaunchintoanargumentwhichwouldhavemadethembothfeelbitterlyagainsteachother，andtodefinesensationswhichhadnosuchimportanceaswordswereboundtogivethemwhenHewetledherthoughtsinadifferentdirection。
“I’veoftenwalkedalongthestreetswherepeopleliveallinarow，andonehouseisexactlylikeanotherhouse，andwonderedwhatonearththewomenweredoinginside，“hesaid。“Justconsider:
it’sthebeginningofthetwentiethcentury，anduntilafewyearsagonowomanhadevercomeoutbyherselfandsaidthingsatall。
Thereitwasgoingoninthebackground，forallthosethousandsofyears，thiscurioussilentunrepresentedlife。Ofcoursewe’realwayswritingaboutwomen——abusingthem，orjeeringatthem，orworshippingthem；butit’snevercomefromwomenthemselves。
Ibelievewestilldon’tknowintheleasthowtheylive，orwhattheyfeel，orwhattheydoprecisely。Ifone’saman，theonlyconfidencesonegetsarefromyoungwomenabouttheirloveaffairs。Butthelivesofwomenofforty，ofunmarriedwomen，ofworkingwomen，ofwomenwhokeepshopsandbringupchildren，ofwomenlikeyourauntsorMrs。ThornburyorMissAllan——
oneknowsnothingwhateveraboutthem。Theywon’ttellyou。
Eitherthey’reafraid，orthey’vegotawayoftreatingmen。
It’stheman’sviewthat’srepresented，yousee。Thinkofarailwaytrain:fifteencarriagesformenwhowanttosmoke。
Doesn’titmakeyourbloodboil？IfIwereawomanI’dblowsomeone’sbrainsout。Don’tyoulaughatusagreatdeal？
Don’tyouthinkitallagreathumbug？You，Imean——howdoesitallstrikeyou？“
Hisdeterminationtoknow，whileitgavemeaningtotheirtalk，hamperedher；heseemedtopressfurtherandfurther，andmadeitappearsoimportant。Shetooksometimetoanswer，andduringthattimeshewentoverandoverthecourseofhertwenty-fouryears，lightingnowononepoint，nowonanother——onheraunts，hermother，herfather，andatlasthermindfixeduponherauntsandherfather，andshetriedtodescribethemasatthisdistancetheyappearedtoher。
Theywereverymuchafraidofherfather。Hewasagreatdimforceinthehouse，bymeansofwhichtheyheldontothegreatworldwhichisrepresentedeverymorninginthe_Times_。Butthereallifeofthehousewassomethingquitedifferentfromthis。
ItwentonindependentlyofMr。Vinrace，andtendedtohideitselffromhim。Hewasgood-humouredtowardsthem，butcontemptuous。
Shehadalwaystakenitforgrantedthathispointofviewwasjust，andfoundeduponanidealscaleofthingswherethelifeofonepersonwasabsolutelymoreimportantthanthelifeofanother，andthatinthatscaletheyweremuchlessimportancethanhewas。
Butdidshereallybelievethat？Hewet’swordsmadeherthink。
Shealwayssubmittedtoherfather，justastheydid，butitwasherauntswhoinfluencedherreally；herauntswhobuiltupthefine，closelywovensubstanceoftheirlifeathome。Theywerelesssplendidbutmorenaturalthanherfatherwas。Allherrageshadbeenagainstthem；itwastheirworldwithitsfourmeals，itspunctuality，andservantsonthestairsathalf-pastten，thatsheexaminedsocloselyandwantedsovehementlytosmashtoatoms。
Followingthesethoughtsshelookedupandsaid:
“Andthere’sasortofbeautyinit——theretheyareatRichmondatthisverymomentbuildingthingsup。They’reallwrong，perhaps，butthere’sasortofbeautyinit，“sherepeated。
“It’ssounconscious，somodest。Andyettheyfeelthings。
Theydomindifpeopledie。Oldspinstersarealwaysdoingthings。
Idon’tquiteknowwhattheydo。OnlythatwaswhatIfeltwhenI
livedwiththem。Itwasveryreal。“
Shereviewedtheirlittlejourneystoandfro，toWalworth，tocharwomenwithbadlegs，tomeetingsforthisandthat，theirminuteactsofcharityandunselfishnesswhichfloweredpunctuallyfromadefiniteviewofwhattheyoughttodo，theirfriendships，theirtastesandhabits；shesawallthesethingslikegrainsofsandfalling，fallingthroughinnumerabledays，makinganatmosphereandbuildingupasolidmass，abackground。
Hewetobservedherassheconsideredthis。
“Wereyouhappy？“hedemanded。
Againshehadbecomeabsorbedinsomethingelse，andhecalledherbacktoanunusuallyvividconsciousnessofherself。
“Iwasboth，“shereplied。“IwashappyandIwasmiserable。
You’venoconceptionwhatit’slike——tobeayoungwoman。“
Shelookedstraightathim。“Thereareterrorsandagonies，“
shesaid，keepinghereyeonhimasiftodetecttheslightesthintoflaughter。
“Icanbelieveit，“hesaid。Hereturnedherlookwithperfectsincerity。
“Womenoneseesinthestreets，“shesaid。
“Prostitutes？“
“Menkissingone。“
Henoddedhishead。
“Youwerenevertold？“
Sheshookherhead。
“Andthen，“shebeganandstopped。Herecameinthegreatspaceoflifeintowhichnoonehadeverpenetrated。AllthatshehadbeensayingaboutherfatherandherauntsandwalksinRichmondPark，andwhattheydidfromhourtohour，wasmerelyonthesurface。
Hewetwaswatchingher。Didhedemandthatsheshoulddescribethatalso？Whydidhesitsonearandkeephiseyeonher？
Whydidtheynothavedonewiththissearchingandagony？Whydidtheynotkisseachothersimply？Shewishedtokisshim。Butallthetimeshewentonspinningoutwords。
“Agirlismorelonelythanaboy。Noonecaresintheleastwhatshedoes。Nothing’sexpectedofher。Unlessone’sveryprettypeopledon’tlistentowhatyousay……AndthatiswhatIlike，“
sheaddedenergetically，asifthememorywereveryhappy。
“IlikewalkinginRichmondParkandsingingtomyselfandknowingitdoesn’tmatteradamntoanybody。Ilikeseeingthingsgoon——aswesawyouthatnightwhenyoudidn’tseeus——
Ilovethefreedomofit——it’slikebeingthewindorthesea。“
Sheturnedwithacuriousflingofherhandsandlookedatthesea。
Itwasstillveryblue，dancingawayasfarastheeyecouldreach，butthelightonitwasyellower，andthecloudswereturningflamingored。
AfeelingofintensedepressioncrossedHewet’smindasshespoke。
Itseemedplainthatshewouldnevercareforonepersonratherthananother；shewasevidentlyquiteindifferenttohim；theyseemedtocomeverynear，andthentheywereasfarapartaseveragain；
andhergestureassheturnedawayhadbeenoddlybeautiful。
“Nonsense，“hesaidabruptly。“Youlikepeople。Youlikeadmiration。
YourrealgrudgeagainstHirstisthathedoesn’tadmireyou。“
Shemadenoanswerforsometime。Thenshesaid:
“That’sprobablytrue。OfcourseIlikepeople——IlikealmosteveryoneI’veevermet。“
SheturnedherbackontheseaandregardedHewetwithfriendlyifcriticaleyes。Hewasgood-lookinginthesensethathehadalwayshadasufficiencyofbeeftoeatandfreshairtobreathe。
Hisheadwasbig；theeyeswerealsolarge；thoughgenerallyvaguetheycouldbeforcible；andthelipsweresensitive。
Onemightaccounthimamanofconsiderablepassionandfitfulenergy，likelytobeatthemercyofmoodswhichhadlittlerelationtofacts；
atoncetolerantandfastidious。Thebreadthofhisforeheadshowedcapacityforthought。TheinterestwithwhichRachellookedathimwasheardinhervoice。
“Whatnovelsdoyouwrite？“sheasked。
“IwanttowriteanovelaboutSilence，“hesaid；“thethingspeopledon’tsay。Butthedifficultyisimmense。“Hesighed。“However，youdon’tcare，“hecontinued。Helookedatheralmostseverely。
“Nobodycares。Allyoureadanovelforistoseewhatsortofpersonthewriteris，and，ifyouknowhim，whichofhisfriendshe’sputin。
Asforthenovelitself，thewholeconception，thewayone’sseenthething，feltaboutit，makeitstandinrelationtootherthings，notoneinamillioncaresforthat。AndyetIsometimeswonderwhetherthere’sanythingelseinthewholeworldworthdoing。
Theseotherpeople，“heindicatedthehotel，“arealwayswantingsomethingtheycan’tget。Butthere’sanextraordinarysatisfactioninwriting，evenintheattempttowrite。Whatyousaidjustnowistrue:onedoesn’twanttobethings；onewantsmerelytobeallowedtoseethem。“
Someofthesatisfactionofwhichhespokecameintohisfaceashegazedouttosea。