nce it ate all these dinners must be growing very corpulent； next （she was invited to a score of lectures on the Influence of this upon that； the Classical revival； the Romantic survival； and other titles of the same engaging kind） that literature since it listened to all these lectures must be growing very dry； next （here she attended a reception given by a peeress） that literature since it wore all those fur tippets must be growing very respectable； next （here she visited Carlyle’s sound–proof room at Chelsea） that genius since it needed all this coddling must be growing very delicate； and so at last she reached her final conclusion； which was of the highest importance but which； as we have already much overpassed our limit of six lines； we must omit。
Orlando； having e to this conclusion； stood looking out of the window for a considerable space of time。 For； when anybody es to a conclusion it is as if they had tossed the ball over the and must wait for the unseen antagonist to return it to them。 What would be sent her next from the colourless sky above Chesterfield House； she wondered？ And with her hands clasped； she stood for a considerable space of time wondering。 Suddenly she started—and here we could only wish that； as on a former occasion； Purity； Chastity； and Modesty would push the door ajar and provide； at least； a breathing space in which we could think how to wrap up what now has to be told delicately； as a biographer should。 But no！ Having thrown their white garment at the naked Orlando and seen it fall short by several inches； these ladies had given up all intercourse with her these many years； and were now otherwise engaged。 Is nothing then； going to happen this pale March morning to mitigate； to veil； to cover； to conceal； to shroud this undeniable event whatever it may be？ For after giving that sudden； violent start； Orlando—but Heaven be praised； at this very moment there struck up outside one of these frail； reedy； fluty； jerky； old–fashioned barrel–organs which are still sometimes played by Italian organ–grinders in back streets。 Let us accept the intervention； humble though it is； as if it were the music of the spheres； and allow it； with all its gasps and groans； to fill this page with sound until the moment es when it is impossible to deny its ing； which the footman has seen ing and the maid–servant； and the reader will have to see too； for Orlando herself is clearly unable to ignore it any longer—let the barrel–organ sound and transport us on thought； which is no more than a little boat； when music sounds； tossing on the waves； on thought； which is； of all carriers； the most clumsy； the most erratic； over the roof tops and the back gardens where washing is hanging to—what is this place？ Do you recognize the Green and in the middle the steeple； and the gate with a lion couchant on either side？ Oh yes； it is Kew！ Well； Kew will do。 So here we are at Kew； and I will show you to–day （the second of March） under the plum tree； a grape hyacinth； and a crocus； and a bud； too； on the almond tree； so that to walk there is to be thinking of bulbs； hairy and red； thrust into the earth in October； flowering now； and to be dreaming of more than can rightly be said； and to be taking from its case a cigarette or cigar even； and to be flinging a cloak under （as the rhyme requires） an oak； and there to sit； waiting the kingfisher； which； it is said； was seen once to cross in the evening from bank to bank。
Wait！ Wait！ The kingfisher es； the kingfisher es not。
Behold； meanwhile； the factory chimneys and their smoke； behold the city clerks flashing by in their outrigger。 Behold the old lady taking her dog for a walk and the servant girl wearing her new hat for the first time not at the right angle。 Behold them all。 Though Heaven has mercifully decreed that the secrets of all hearts are hidden so that we are lured on for ever to suspect something； perhaps； that does not exist； still through our cigarette smoke； we see blaze up and salute the splendid fulfilment of natural desires for a hat； for a boat； for a rat in a ditch； as once one saw blazing—such silly hops and skips the mind takes when it slops like this all over the saucer and the barrel–organ plays—saw blazing a fire in a field against minarets near Constantinople。
Hail！ natural desire！ Hail！ happiness！ divine happiness！ and pleasure of all sorts； flowers and wine； though one fades and the other intoxicates； and half–crown tickets out of London on Sundays； and singing in a dark chapel hymns about death； and anything； anything that interrupts and confounds the tapping of typewriters and filing of letters and forging of links and chains； binding the Empire together。 Hail even the crude； red bows on shop girls’ lips （as if Cupid； very clumsily； dipped his thumb in red ink and scrawled a token in passing）。 Hail； happiness！ kingfisher flashing from bank to bank； and all fulfilment of natural desire； whether it is what the male novelist says it is； or prayer； or denial； hail！ in whatever form it es； and may there be more forms； and stranger。 For dark flows the stream—would it were true； as the rhyme hints ‘like a dream’—but duller and worser than that is our usual lot； without dreams； but alive； smug； fluent； habitual； under trees whose shade of an olive green drowns the blue of the wing of the vanishing bird when he darts of a sudden from bank to bank。
Hail； happiness； then； and after happiness； hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country–inn parlour； dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep； but sleep； sleep； so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness； water of dimness inscrutable； and there； folded； shrouded； like a mummy； like a moth； prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep。
But wait！ but wait！ we are not going； this time； visiting the blind land。 Blue； like a match struck right in the ball of the innermost eye； he flies； burns； bursts the seal of sleep； the kingfisher； so that now floods back refluent like a tide； the red； thick stream of life again； bubbling； dripping； and we rise； and our eyes （for how handy a rhyme is to pass us safe over the awkward transition from death to life） fall on—（here the barrel–organ stops playing abruptly）。
‘It’s a very fine boy； M’Lady；’ said Mrs Banting； the midwife； putting her first–born child into Orlando’s arms。 In other words Orlando was safely delivered of a son on Thursday； March the 20th； at three o’clock in the morning。
Once more Orlando stood at the window； but let the reader take courage； nothing of the same sort is going to happen to–day； which is not； by any means； the same day。 No—for if we look out of the window； as Orlando was doing at the moment； we shall see that Park Lane itself has considerably changed。 Indeed one might stand there ten minutes or more； as Orlando stood now； without seeing a single barouche landau。 ‘Look at that！’ she exclaimed； some days later when an absurd truncated carriage without any horses began to glide about of its own accord。 A carriage without any horses indeed！ She was called away just as she said that； but came back again after a time and had another look out of the window。 It was odd sort of weather nowadays。 The sky itself； she could not help thinking； had changed。 It was no longer so thick； so watery； so prismatic now that King Edward—see； there he was； stepping out of his neat brougham to go and visit a certain lady opposite—had succeeded Queen Victoria。 The clouds had shrunk to a thin gauze； the sky seemed made of metal； which in hot weather tarnished verdigris； copper colour or orange as metal does in a fog。 It was a little alarming—this shrinkage。 Everything seemed to have shrunk。 Driving past Buckingham Palace last night； there was not a trace of that vast erection which she had thought everlasting； top hats； widows’ weeds； trumpets； telescopes； wreaths； all had vanished and left not a stain； not a puddle even； on the pavement。 But it was now—after another interval she had e back again to her favourite station in the window—now； in the evening； that the change was most remarkable。 Look at the lights in the houses！ At a touch； a whole room was lit； hundreds of rooms were lit； and one was precisely the same as the other。 One could see everything in the little square–shaped boxes； there was no privacy； none of those lingering shadows and odd corners that there used to be； none of those women in aprons carrying wobbly lamps which they put down carefully on this table and on that。 At a touch； the whole room was bright。 And the sky was bright all night long； and the pavements were bright； everything was bright。 She came back again at mid–day。 How narrow women have grown lately！ They looked like stalks of corn； straight； shining； identical。 And men’s faces were as bare as the palm of one’s hand。 The dryness of the atmosphere brought out the colour in everything and seemed to stiffen the muscles of the cheeks。 It was harder to cry now。 Water was hot in two seconds。 Ivy had perished or been scraped off houses。 Vegetables were less fertile； families were much smaller。 Curtai