Her sidelong glance
told Rachel that she found her attractive although she was inexplicably
amused.
"Why do people marry?" Rachel asked.
"That's what you're going to find out," Clarissa laughed.
Rachel followed her eyes and found that they rested for a second, on the
robust figure of Richard Dalloway, who was engaged in striking a match
on the sole of his boot; while Willoughby expounded something, which
seemed to be of great interest to them both.
"There's nothing like it," she concluded. "Do tell me about the
Ambroses. Or am I asking too many questions?"
"I find you easy to talk to," said Rachel.
The short sketch of the Ambroses was, however, somewhat perfunctory, and
contained little but the fact that Mr. Ambrose was her uncle.
"Your mother's brother?"
When a name has dropped out of use, the lightest touch upon it tells.
Mrs. Dalloway went on:
"Are you like your mother?"
"No; she was different," said Rachel.
She was overcome by an intense desire to tell Mrs. Dalloway things she
had never told any one--things she had not realised herself until this
moment.
"I am lonely," she began. "I want--" She did not know what she wanted,
so that she could not finish the sentence; but her lip quivered.
But it seemed that Mrs. Dalloway was able to understand without words.
"I know," she said, actually putting one arm round Rachel's shoulder.
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