“Has she got children? She doesn’t look like it somehow.”
“Two. A boy and girl.”
A pang of envy shot through Mrs. Dalloway’s heart.
“We must have a son, Dick,” she said.
“Good Lord, what opportunities there are now for young men!” said Dalloway, for his talk had set him thinking. “I don’t suppose there’s been so good an opening since the days of Pitt.”
“And it’s yours!” said Clarissa.
“To be a leader of men,” Richard soliloquised. “It’s a fine career. My God—what a career!”
The chest slowly curved beneath his waistcoat.
“D’you know, Dick, I can’t help thinking of England,” said his wife meditatively, leaning her head against his chest. “Being on this ship seems to make it so much more vivid—what it really means to be English. One thinks of all we’ve done, and our navies, and the people in India and Africa, and how we’ve gone on century after century, sending out boys from little country villages—and of men like you, Dick, and it makes one feel as if one couldn’t bear not to be English! Think of the light burning over the House, Dick! When I stood on deck just now I seemed to see it. It’s what one means by London.”
“It’s the continuity,” said Richard sententiously. A vision of English history, King following King, Prime Minister Prime Minister, and Law Law had come over him while his wife spoke. He ran his mind along the line of conservative policy, which went steadily from Lord Salisbury to Alfred, and gradually enclosed, as though it were a lasso that opened and caught things, enormous chunks of the habitable globe.