Where then was Delia? Delia had invited her. She had had lunch alone with Delia. Delia had said she would be bored with the crush but Walter had asked her to be sure to come. Walter had asked her to come so that he could hate them all in peace and yet play nicely. There was Walter. But she must first find Delia. What an odd Walter, like some one in an elegant Pinero revival, coming forward, one hadn’t even imagined Walter (even) could be so elegant. “Huh,” from George. “Old Forgeron is in fine professional form.” Forgeron came forward, bowing a little. Who was he bowing to, eyes so colourless, amber and flecked grey amber. Walter’s eyes were a brook’s eyes, not a deep wood brook but one that has escaped from a glacier. Warmth came and went in Walter’s eyes, warmth not his own, one felt, but the warmth that came to a glacial stream that runs over clear amber. Walter.
Walter would play now and this was funny She didn’t want to hear Walter play. How odd that she resented Walter, hated even Walter a little. Now she saw, felt with the consciousness of all these people who so hated Walter. Hermione had found in London what all along she knew prophetically she would find. She had sunk (with the first exquisite uprising of early autumn) under, into it. She had sunk into London as one sinks into a down cushion, into a series of excellent down cushions, all blurred, all exquisitely of a piece yet blurred. She had let go her astute hold on things of intellect (even the Elgin marbles) after her first conscientious three weeks. “We’ve seen all London. We’ve seen the Tower.” This seemed to amuse people at Delia’s, other odd people, friends of George’s, of Delia’s, who asked her to their houses. “We’ve seen the Soane museum.” “The what, darling?” (People even in the beginning patronised, petted her.) “Soane. Sir John Soane—” “What?” “Why it’s a little museum with some lovely odd things. Some odd lovely intaglios, cameos and things.” “Where?” “Off — off somewhere off Lincoln’s—” “Not Inn, darling?” “Well, I think so.” “Fancy. The poor darling has been to Lincoln’s Inn. We must rescue her. What brutes her friends are.
“Darling” had been somewhat rescued lately. Too much so. She was tired, getting blurred with it. How could it be otherwise? “I tell you Fayne that you must stay with me.” “I can’t. I can’t leave Madre.”
Fayne Rabb and Clara going home soon. Too late already. They had already out-stayed their time. Boats sailing. Grubby wharfs. Hooting of sirens. O let me shut it all out, all out in Delia’s beauty.
Delia, you are so beautiful. You are beautiful with the rightness that comes with antecedents and with wisdom. Delia you are good. Delia your house is full of everyone from everywhere, you don’t shut out anyone. Funny Delia. “Delia is above suspicion” someone said when someone said, “how odd of Delia to invite that Dalton woman here.” Who was the Dalton woman? Someone crowding through chairs, making herself very thin though she was thin enough in all consciousness. There was the Dalton woman and even Walter paused, his two hands poised and then began an ironic little run up and down, up and down as much as to say, “you fiend, you fiend woman, you have driven me mad, now listen.” Walter was running up and down, up and down. People were frightened but still the Dalton woman held the audience. The Dalton woman and Walter. But Walter won. The Dalton woman with a frisson (she would have said a frisson) sank into half the end of a Chesterfield that was pulled out at an odd angle and everyone began again to breathe. But Walter was standing. Walter was looking at the Dalton woman.
“O this sort of thing. This always happens,” the voice was going on and Hermione turned to meet a pair of half familiar eyes, yes she had met this somewhere, rather nice with a petunia-coloured hat a little rakish over one eye and enormous jade ear-rings and odd sleek ivory-smooth white hair showing under the hat above the jade ear-rings. Odd, patrician. A petunia. Not a flower of her preference but Hermione liked to see a thing being itself. A petunia. Not a flower of her preference but with an autumn richness, no fragrance, rather heady with all but right, doing the right thing. A petunia would. The petunia seemed to know everyone, seemed to know everything. “Dear Redforth, a shocking woman. Now you watch. For two bob, our demi-god will stalk out. You wait and see if he doesn’t. He told old Langstreath that he wouldn’t be found dead in her house again. Shocking old snob. She had asked Dalborough to drop in and he dropped in the middle of the Après Midi d’un Faune. It was no après midi for poor frazzled Lydia. Her lion lept and roared and finally departed.” “Sh-uuh—”
The Dalton woman and the petunia were both forgotten. Waves of cold mountain water had extinguished them. There was no colour where this was. The music was transparent. Who said there was colour in music? Someone, somewhere. People now were always saying it. Colour in music, tones, sound in pictures. Colour. There was no colour in this thing.
Back of the piano where the curtain of gold gauze shut out or lured in the most tender of silver mists, back of the gold curtain that was a gold net under the sea, to lure, to entrap, back of the curtain, no before the curtain, water welled up, up, up. It welled in bubbling sound. This was not the sea-floor. There were bits of coral to be sure — but that was the odd earring turned toward her of someone — the Dalton woman? — while the other ear (whose?) was turned to catch the music. Ears. Ears. Ears. There were ears tilted up, ears tilted down, ears side-ways. Ears were shells, were flowers, and into those ears (impersonal ears) the music poured and flowed, impersonal, everyone might listen, Hermione, the Dalton woman. Delia. This was Delia’s concert. Anyone might listen for Delia being above suspicion might have anyone in to listen. Going on and on. A fountain of icy water that bubbled up from a sea floor. Arethusa was a fountain that ran under the sea, ran under the sea from Italy (or Greece was it?) straight to Sicily. Sicily. A fountain in Sicily. There were hot banks of fruit, almonds, hot grapes, petunia-coloured grapes and purple figs. Walter had nothing to do with them. He was the water simply that welled up and up. Up and up. He was the water simply. Fresh water, mountain water that ran and ran and ran. . people were ears simply. People weren’t people. Odd ears. To be washed. O wash your ears. You’re always forgetting your ears. Eugenia. Would Eugenia like this music? She liked Bach. If you called Bach music then this was nothing at all. It wasn’t anything. Only water, bubbling, bubbling, running, running. Water. She was the thing it flowed toward. Hermione was the impersonal thing it flowed toward. Walter was tired, his great head hung heavy on his heavy young body. The great head that was the stricken head of a wounded Hermes hung down, heavy; faster, faster, the hands were heavy, solid. How could water flow so simply from hands that were so solid? On. On. On. He had asked her to come to Delia’s (though Delia had asked her anyway) so that he wouldn’t too much hate the people. People. Hating people. Where was this taking her? “I would like to have a little knife, a sharp little knife. And I would like to turn and turn and turn that knife in Dowel’s heart. Really. I’d like to do that and say so simply, now you feel.” Who was saying that? O who dared say that? This is how people hated Walter. Really, really hated Walter. Who dared, who dared say that of Walter? A face was leaning toward another face, a thin highly tinted fox-shaped face with puffs of fox-coloured hair and a red mouth that made a scar and a blatant tint of red on that mouth that seemed purposely to clash with the hair colour. Who so dared speak? A face was leaning over the back of a Chesterfield and was opening tinted lips to someone who was “shuuhing” at it, “he’s going on. For God’s sake don’t be funny.”