ng habit of ours of asking questions indoors and out and peeping and picking at daisies as the way is of writers when they don’t know what to say next。 Then they e here； says the bird； and ask me what life is； Life； Life； Life！
We trudge on then by the moor path； to the high brow of the wine–blue purple–dark hill； and fling ourselves down there； and dream there and see there a grasshopper； carting back to his home in the hollow； a straw。 And he says （if sawings like his can be given a name so sacred and tender） Life’s labour； or so we interpret the whirr of his dust–choked gullet。 And the ant agrees and the bees； but if we lie here long enough to ask the moths； when they e at evening； stealing among the paler heather bells； they will breathe in our ears such wild nonsense as one hears from telegraph wires in snow storms； tee hee； haw haw。 Laughter； Laughter！ the moths say。
Having asked then of man and of bird and the insects； for fish； men tell us； who have lived in green caves； solitary for years to hear them speak； never； never say； and so perhaps know what life is—having asked them all and grown no wiser； but only older and colder （for did we not pray once in a way to wrap up in a book something so hard； so rare； one could swear it was life’s meaning？） back we must go and say straight out to the reader who waits a–tiptoe to hear what life is—alas； we don’t know。
At this moment； but only just in time to save the book from extinction； Orlando pushed away her chair； stretched her arms； dropped her pen； came to the window； and exclaimed； ‘Done！’
She was almost felled to the ground by the extraordinary sight which now met her eyes。 There was the garden and some birds。 The world was going on as usual。 All the time she was writing the world had continued。
‘And if I were dead； it would be just the same！’ she exclaimed。
Such was the intensity of her feelings that she could even imagine that she had suffered dissolution； and perhaps some faintness actually attacked her。 For a moment she stood looking at the fair； indifferent spectacle with staring eyes。 At length she was revived in a singular way。 The manuscript which reposed above her heart began shuffling and beating as if it were a living thing； and； what was still odder； and showed how fine a sympathy was between them； Orlando； by inclining her head； could make out what it was that it was saying。 It wanted to be read。 It must be read。 It would die in her bosom if it were not read。 For the first time in her life she turned with violence against nature。 Elk–hounds and rose bushes were about her in profusion。 But elk–hounds and rose bushes can none of them read。 It is a lamentable oversight on the part of Providence which had never struck her before。 Human beings alone are thus gifted。 Human beings had bee necessary。 She rang the bell。 She ordered the carriage to take her to London at once。
‘There’s just time to catch the eleven forty five； M’Lady；’ said Basket。 Orlando had not yet realized the invention of the steam engine； but such was her absorption in the sufferings of a being； who； though not herself； yet entirely depended on her； that she saw a railway train for the first time； took her seat in a railway carriage； and had the rug arranged about her knees without giving a thought to ‘that stupendous invention； which had （the historians say） pletely changed the face of Europe in the past twenty years’ （as； indeed； happens much more frequently than historians suppose）。 She noticed only that it was extremely smutty； rattled horribly； and the windows stuck。 Lost in thought； she was whirled up to London in something less than an hour and stood on the platform at Charing Cross； not knowing where to go。
The old house at Blackfriars； where she had spent so many pleasant days in the eighteenth century； was now sold； part to the Salvation Army； part to an umbrella factory。 She had bought another in Mayfair which was sanitary； convenient； and in the heart of the fashionable world； but was it in Mayfair that her poem would be relieved of its desire？ Pray God； she thought； remembering the brightness of their ladyships’ eyes and the symmetry of their lordship’s legs； they haven’t taken to reading there。 For that would be a thousand pities。 Then there was Lady R。’s。 The same sort of talk would be going on there still； she had no doubt。 The gout might have shifted from the General’s left leg to his right； perhaps。 Mr L。 might have stayed ten days with R。 instead of T。 Then Mr Pope would e in。 Oh！ but Mr Pope was dead。 Who were the wits now； she wondered—but that was not a question one could put to a porter； and so she moved on。 Her ears were now distracted by the jingling of innumerable bells on the heads of innumerable horses。 Fleets of the strangest little boxes on wheels were drawn up by the pavement。 She walked out into the Strand。 There the uproar was even worse。 Vehicles of all sizes； drawn by blood horses and by dray horses； conveying one solitary dowager or crowded to the top by whiskered men in silk hats； were inextricably mixed。 Carriages； carts； and omnibuses seemed to her eyes； so long used to the look of a plain sheet of foolscap； alarmingly at loggerheads； and to her ears； attuned to a pen scratching； the uproar of the street sounded violently and hideously cacophonous。 Every inch of the pavement was crowded。 Streams of people； threading in and out between their own bodies and the lurching and lumbering traffic with incredible agility； poured incessantly east and west。 Along the edge of the pavement stood men； holding out trays of toys； and bawled。 At corners； women sat beside great baskets of spring flowers and bawled。 Boys running in and out of the horses’ noses； holding printed sheets to their bodies； bawled too； Disaster！ Disaster！ At first Orlando supposed that she had arrived at some moment of national crisis； but whether it was happy or tragic； she could not tell。 She looked anxiously at people’s faces。 But that confused her still more。 Here would e by a man sunk in despair； muttering to himself as if he knew some terrible sorrow。 Past him would nudge a fat； jolly–faced fellow； shouldering his way along as if it were a festival for all the world。 Indeed； she came to the conclusion that there was neither rhyme nor reason in any of it。 Each man and each woman was bent on his own affairs。 And where was she to go？
She walked on without thinking； up one street and down another； by vast windows piled with handbags； and mirrors； and dressing gowns； and flowers； and fishing rods； and luncheon baskets； while stuff of every hue and pattern； thickness or thinness； was looped and festooned and ballooned across and across。 Sometimes she passed down avenues of sedate mansions； soberly numbered ‘one’； ‘two’； ‘three’； and so on right up to two or three hundred； each the copy of the other； with two pillars and six steps and a pair of curtains neatly drawn and family luncheons laid on tables； and a parrot looking out of one window and a man servant out of another； until her mind was dizzied with the monotony。 Then she came to great open squares with black shiny； tightly buttoned statues of fat men in the middle； and war horses pran