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    Descent into Hell: A Novel
    Descent into Hell: A Novel
    Descent into Hell: A Novel
    Ebook255 pages5 hours

    Descent into Hell: A Novel

    By Charles Williams

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    • Identity

    • Poetry & Literature

    • Fear & Anxiety

    • Power Dynamics

    • Death & Mortality

    • Fear of the Unknown

    • Search for Meaning

    • Doppelganger

    • Love Triangle

    • Secret Identity

    • Power of Love

    • Self-Discovery

    • Mentorship

    • Redemption

    • Sacrifice

    About this ebook

    In this provocative, classic metaphysical thriller, a group of suburban amateur actors plagued by personal demons and terrors explore the pathways to heaven and hell

    Certain inhabitants of Battle Hill, a small community on the outskirts of London, are preparing to mount a new play by the neighborhood’s most illustrious resident, the writer Peter Stanhope. Each actor struggles with self-absorption, doubt, fear, and sin. But “the Hill” is not like other places. Here the past and present intermingle, ghosts walk among the living, and reality is often clouded by dreams and the dark fantastic. For young Pauline Anstruther, who is caring for an aging grandmother and frightened by the specter of a doppelgänger who gets closer with each visitation, the prospect of heaven exists in the renowned playwright’s willingness to bear the burden of her terror. For eminent historian Lawrence Wentworth, the rejection of his desire pulls him deeper inside himself, leaving him vulnerable to the lure of the succubus and opening wide the entrance to hell.

    A brilliant theological thriller, Descent into Hell is an extraordinary fictional meditation on sin and personal salvation by one of the twentieth century’s most original and provocative literary artists. Charles Williams, a member of the Inklings alongside fellow Oxfordians C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Owen Barfield, has written a powerful work at once profoundly disturbing and gloriously uplifting, an ingenious amalgam of metaphysics, religious thought, and darkest fantasy.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateFeb 17, 2015
    ISBN9781504006637
    Descent into Hell: A Novel
    Author

    Charles Williams

    Charles Walter Stansby Williams (1886 1945) was a British poet, novelist, playwright, theologian and literary critic. Most of his life was spent in London, where he was born, but in 1939 he moved to Oxford with the university press for which he worked and was buried there following his early death.Charles Williams was born in London in 1886, the only son of (Richard) Walter Stansby Williams (18481929) and Mary (née Wall). His father Walter was a journalist and foreign business correspondent for an importing firm, writing in French and German, who was a 'regular and valued' contributor of verse, stories and articles to many popular magazines. His mother Mary, the sister of the ecclesiologist and historian J. Charles Wall, was a former milliner (hatmaker),[4] of Islington. He had one sister, Edith, born in 1889. The Williams family lived in 'shabby-genteel' circumstances, owing to Walter's increasing blindness and the decline of the firm by which he was employed, in Holloway. In 1894 the family moved to St Albans in Hertfordshire, where Williams lived until his marriage in 1917.

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    Reviews for Descent into Hell

    4/5

    115 ratings7 reviews

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    • 4/5
      In terms of the quality of the writing and the power of the concepts, I rate this 4 r even 5. In terms of enjoyability, I rate it 2 or 1. It is about a scholar who becomes obsessively in love (or lust) with a young woman who does not love him, which makes him vulnerable to a succubus who impersonates the women he desires. His whole life becomes wrapped up in this relationship, and ultimately he does die and go to hell. It is horribly believable. One bit I recall is that the scholar's chance of salvation is a design for some costumes in the period of which he is an expert which he is asked to advise on --he recognizes they are all wrong and he could revise the., but because of his obsession/illness he declines to do so. it is said that this is a small chance, but he has had otherwise a life with a lot of spiritual opportunities and it is all he deserved (in comparison to another character who is given a better chance and is saved). There are other plot lines in the novel I no longer recall.
    • 2/5
      I think it's time for me to give up on Williams. This is the fourth novel of his that I've read, and it seems to have the least plot and most theology going on so far. Williams' theology is interesting, but I think I'm looking for an exciting story to go with it... Williams is just too dense for me.

      I made it through the first 60 pages or so. The novel is about a group of people living in a place called Battle Hill, and basically how they struggle with their sin, sometimes in bizarre supernatural ways such as a woman who is constantly followed by her doppelganger and a worker who committed suicide by hanging, but still haunts the Hill. Several of the people are involved in putting on a play, which hasn't really tied into Williams' point so far. I'm sure Williams has some sort of excellent revelation at the end, but I just can't make it there this time.
    • 2/5
      I am a huge fan of Charles Williams. “All Hallow’s Eve” is a flawed but brilliant masterpiece. For me this was not as strong as the magnificent “All Hallow’s Eve.” But with “Descent Into Hell,” too many sentences read as solipsistic labyrinths of incoherence. The gestalt that pulled “All Hallow’s Eve” together couldn’t overcome the muddle of “Descent Into Hell.” It seemed like the idea for “Descent Into Hell” was never fully formed and that came across in the execution. I feel like it needed a vicious and ruthless editor.

      That being said, it IS Charles Williams and, while the wording is cumbersome instead of dazzling, there are flashes of brilliance—such as his characterization of Gomorrah.

      It took me two reads to fully grok All Hallow’s Eve; I may need another read-through for this one as well … I’m just not sure it’s worth it.
    • 3/5
      I'm not sure how to rate this one. It deserves a five-star rating for depth and magnitude, and incredible concepts, but it deserves a one-star rating for writing style, clarity, and technique.

      Charles Williams, one of the Inklings, apparently cannot write. The scenes with the succubus, and the descent of the man into Hell are chilling, and the rise of Pauline from her own hell into heaven was interesting.

      However, the man can't write. He strings together too many sentences with semi-colons until the original thought is completely lost and opague. He is vague with pronouns, so often one does not know who or what is doing the thinking or acting. The writing goes in circles and circles and circles.

      Here is a typical sentence: “The edge of the other world was running up along the sky, the world where everyone carried themselves but everyone carried someone else’s grief – Alice in Wonderland, sweet Alice, Alice sit by the fire, the fire burned: who sat by the fire that burned a man in another’s blood on the grass of a poet’s houses where things were given backward, and rules were against rights and rights against rules, and a ghost in the fire was a ghost in the street, and the thing that had been was the thing that was to be and it was coming, was coming; what was coming; what but herself? she was coming, she was coming, up the street and the wind; herself – a terrible good, terror and error, but the terror was error, and the error was the terror, and now all were in him, for he had taken them into himself, and he was coming, down all the roads of Battle Hill, closing them in him, making them straight: make straight the highways before our God, and they were not for God took them, in the world that was running through this, its wheel turning within this world’s air, rolling out of the air.”

      OMG. That was just ONE sentence.
    • 4/5
      [goodwill, bristol tn]
      doctrine of substituted love.
      tending towards the agnostic this really 'struck a chord', as they say. presents an idea of Gomorrah, which has in my mind as yet remained vaporous & indistinct. we all know sodom = buttsecks but buried deep w/in this book is gomorrah = avoidance.

      it's, it's actually well worth the read.
    • 5/5
      Ranks up there as one of my all-time favorites. I keep coming back to this story.
    • 4/5
      I was introduced to Charles William's "metaphysical thrillers" in college. This was the best he wrote. The "doctrine of substituted love" has had a profound impact on my life. Often, it takes a story to show some theological principle (hence Jesus speaking in parables). This won't be everyone's cup of tea, but reading Williams helps one put into context the great minds and imaginations of the other Inklings.

    Book preview

    Descent into Hell - Charles Williams

    Chapter One

    THE MAGUS ZOROASTER

    It undoubtedly needs, Peter Stanhope said, a final pulling together, but there’s hardly time for that before July, and if you’re willing to take it as it is, why—— He made a gesture of presentation and dropped his eyes, thus missing the hasty reciprocal gesture of gratitude with which Mrs. Parry immediately replied on behalf of the dramatic culture of Battle Hill. Behind and beyond her the culture, some thirty faces, unessentially exhibited to each other by the May sunlight, settled to attention—naturally, efficiently, critically, solemnly, reverently. The grounds of the Manor House expanded beyond them; the universal sky sustained the whole. Peter Stanhope began to read his play.

    Battle Hill was one of the new estates which had been laid out after the war. It lay about thirty miles north of London and took its title from the more ancient name of the broad rise of ground which it covered. It had a quiet ostentation of comfort and culture. The poor, who had created it, had been as far as possible excluded, nor (except as hired servants) were they permitted to experience the bitterness of others’ stairs. The civil wars which existed there, however bitter, were conducted with all bourgeois propriety. Politics, religion, art, science, grouped themselves, and courteously competed for numbers and reputation. This summer, however, had seen a spectacular triumph of drama, for it had become known that Peter Stanhope had consented to allow the restless talent of the Hill to produce his latest play.

    He was undoubtedly the most famous inhabitant. He was a cadet of that family which had owned the Manor House, and he had bought it back from more recent occupiers, and himself settled in it before the war. He had been able to do this because he was something more than a cadet of good family, being also a poet in the direct English line, and so much after the style of his greatest predecessor that he made money out of poetry. His name was admired by his contemporaries and respected by the young. He had even imposed modern plays in verse on the London theatre, and two of them tragedies at that, with a farce or two, and histories for variation and pleasure. He was the kind of figure who might be more profitable to his neighbourhood dead than alive; dead, he would have given it a shrine; alive, he deprecated worshippers. The young men at the estate office made a refined publicity out of his privacy; the name of Peter Stanhope would be whispered without comment. He endured the growing invasion with a great deal of good humour, and was content to see the hill of his birth become a suburb of the City, as in another sense it would always be. There was, in that latest poetry, no contention between the presences of life and of death; so little indeed that there had been a contention in the Sunday Times whether Stanhope were a pessimist or an optimist. He himself said, in reply to an interviewer’s question, that he was an optimist and hated it.

    Stanhope, though the most glorious, was not the only notorious figure of the Hill. There was Mr. Lawrence Wentworth, who was the most distinguished living authority on military history (perhaps excepting Mr. Aston Moffatt). Mr. Wentworth was not in the garden on that afternoon. Mrs. Catherine Parry was; it was she who would produce the play, as in many places and at many times she had produced others. She sat near Stanhope now, almost as tall as he, and with more active though not brighter eyes. They were part of that presence which was so necessary to her profession. Capacity which, in her nature, had reached the extreme of active life, seemed in him to have entered the contemplative, so much had his art become a thing of his soul. Where, in their own separate private affairs, he interfered so little as almost to seem inefficient, she was so efficient as almost to seem interfering.

    In the curve of women and men beyond her, other figures, less generally famous, sat or lay as the depth of their chairs induced them. There were rising young men, and a few risen and retired old. There were ambitious young women and sullen young women and loquacious young women. They were all attentive, though, as a whole, a little disappointed. They had understood that Mr. Stanhope had been writing a comedy, and had hoped for a modern comedy. When he had been approached, however, he had been easy but firm. He had been playing with a pastoral; if they would like a pastoral, it was very much at their service. Hopes and hints of modern comedies were unrealized: it was the pastoral or nothing. They had to be content. He consented to read it to them; he would not do more. He declined to make suggestions for the cast; he declined to produce. He would like, for his own enjoyment, to come to some of the rehearsals, but he made it clear that he had otherwise no wish to interfere. Nothing—given the necessity of a pastoral—could be better; the production would have all the advantage of his delayed death without losing any advantage of his prolonged life. As this became clear, the company grew reconciled. They gazed and listened, while from the long lean figure, outstretched in its deck-chair, there issued the complex intonation of great verse. Never negligible, Stanhope was often neglected; he was everyone’s second thought, but no one’s first. The convenience of all had determined this afternoon that he should be the first, and his neat mass of grey hair, his vivid glance, that rose sometimes from the manuscript, and floated down the rows, and sank again, his occasional friendly gesture that seemed about to deprecate, but always stopped short, received the concentration of his visitors, and of Mrs. Parry, the chief of his visitors.

    It became clear to Mrs. Parry, as the afternoon and the voice went on, that the poet had been quite right when he had said that the play needed pulling together. It’s all higgledy-piggledy, she said to herself, using a word which a friend had once applied to a production of the Tempest, and in fact to the Tempest itself. Mrs. Parry thought that this pastoral was, in some ways, rather like the Tempest. Mr. Stanhope, of course, was not as good as Shakespeare, because Shakespeare was the greatest English poet, so that Stanhope wasn’t. But there was a something. To begin with, it had no title beyond A Pastoral. That was unsatisfactory. Then the plot was incredibly loose. It was of no particular time and no particular place, and to any cultured listener it seemed to have little bits of everything and everybody put in at odd moments. The verse was undoubtedly Stanhope’s own, of his latest, most heightened, and most epigrammatic style, but now and then all kinds of reminiscences moved in it. Once, during the second act, the word pastiche floated through Mrs. Parry’s mind, but went away again on her questioning whether a pastiche would be worth the trouble of production. There was a Grand Duke in it, who had a beautiful daughter, and this daughter either escaped from the palace or was abducted—anyhow, she came into the power of a number of brigands; and then there was a woodcutter’s son who frequently burned leaves, and he and the princess fell in love, and there were two farmers who were at odds, and the Grand Duke turned up in disguise, first in a village and then in the forest, through which also wandered an escaped bear, who spoke the most complex verse of all, excepting the Chorus. The Chorus had no kind of other name; at first Mrs. Parry thought they might be villagers, then, since they were generally present in the forest, she thought they might be trees, or perhaps (with a vague reminiscence of Comus) spirits. Stanhope had not been very helpful; he had alluded to them as an experiment. By the end of the reading, it was clear to Mrs. Parry that it was very necessary to decide what exactly this Chorus was to be.

    She had discouraged discussion of the play during the intervals between the four acts, and as soon as it was over tea was served. If, however, the poet hoped to get away from discussion by means of tea he was mistaken. There was a little hesitation over the correct word; fantastic was dangerous, and poetic both unpopular and supererogatory, though both served for variations on idyllic, which was Mrs. Parry’s choice and won by lengths. As she took her second cup of tea, however, she began to close. She said: Yes, idyllic, Mr. Stanhope, and so significant!

    It’s very good of you, Stanhope murmured. But you see I was right about revision—the plot must seem very loose.

    Mrs. Parry waved the plot up into benevolence. But there are a few points, she went on. The Chorus now. I don’t think I follow the Chorus.

    "The Chorus could be omitted, Stanhope said. It’s not absolutely necessary to a presentation."

    Before Mrs. Parry could answer, a young woman named Adela Hunt, sitting close by, leant forward. She was the leader of the younger artistic party, who were not altogether happy about Mrs. Parry. Adela had some thoughts of taking up production herself as her life-work, and it would have been a great advantage to have started straight away with Peter Stanhope. But her following was not yet strong enough to deal with Mrs. Parry’s reputation. She was determined, however, if possible, to achieve a kind of collaboration by means of correction. O, we oughtn’t to omit anything, ought we? she protested. A work of art can’t spare anything that’s a part of it.

    My dear, Mrs. Parry said, you must consider your audience. What will the audience make of the Chorus?

    It’s for them to make what they can of it, Adela answered. We can only give them a symbol. Art’s always symbolic, isn’t it?

    Mrs. Parry pursed her lips. I wouldn’t say symbolic exactly, she said slowly. It has a significance, of course, and you’ve got to convey that significance to the audience. We want to present it—to interpret.

    As she paused, distracted by the presentation by the poet of two kinds of sandwiches, Adela broke in again.

    "But, Mrs. Parry, how can one interpret a symbol? One can only mass it. It’s all of a piece, and it’s the total effect that creates the symbolical force."

    Significant, not symbolical, said Mrs. Parry firmly. You mustn’t play down to your audience, but you mustn’t play away from them either. You must—she gesticulated—intertwine … harmonize. So you must make it easy for them to get into harmony. That’s what’s wrong with a deal of modern art; it refuses—it doesn’t establish equilibrium with its audience or what not. In a pastoral play you must have equilibrium.

    "But the equilibrium’s in the play, Adela urged again, a balance of masses. Surely that’s what drama is—a symbolical contrast of masses."

    Well, Mrs. Parry answered with infuriating tolerance, I suppose you might call it that. But it’s more effective to think of it as significant equilibrium—especially for a pastoral. However, don’t let’s be abstract. The question is, what’s to be done about the Chorus? Had we better keep it in or leave it out? Which would you prefer, Mr. Stanhope?

    I should prefer it in, if you ask me, Stanhope said politely. But not to inconvenience the production.

    It seems to be in the forest so often, Mrs. Parry mused, dismissing cake. There’s the distant song in the first act, when the princess goes away from the palace, and the choric dialogue when.… It isn’t Dryads, is it?

    A friend of Adela’s, a massive and superb young man of twenty-five, offered a remark. Dryads would rather wreck the eighteenth century, wouldn’t they?

    Watteau, said a young lady near Adela. You could have them period.

    Mrs. Parry looked at her approvingly. Exactly, my dear, she said. A very charming fantasy it might be; we must take care it isn’t precious—only period. But, Mr. Stanhope, you haven’t told us—are they Dryads?

    Actually, Stanhope answered, as I told you, it’s more an experiment than anything else. The main thing is—was—that they are non-human.

    Spirits? said the Watteau young lady with a trill of pleasure.

    If you like, said Stanhope, only not spiritual. Alive, but with a different life—even from the princess.

    Irony? Adela exclaimed. It’s a kind of comment, isn’t it, Mr. Stanhope, on futility? The forest and everything, and the princess and her lover—so transitory.

    Stanhope shook his head. There was a story, invented by himself, that The Times had once sent a representative to ask for explanations about a new play, and that Stanhope, in his efforts to explain it, had found after four hours that he had only succeeded in reading it completely through aloud: Which, he maintained, "was the only way of explaining it."

    No, he said now, not irony. I think perhaps you’d better cut them out.

    There was a moment’s pause. But we can’t do that, Mr. Stanhope, said a voice; they’re important to the poetry, aren’t they? It was the voice of another young woman, sitting behind Adela. Her name was Pauline Anstruther, and, compared with Adela, she was generally silent. Now, after her quick question, she added hastily, I mean—they come in when the princess and the wood-cutter come together, don’t they? Stanhope looked at her, and she felt as if his eyes had opened suddenly. He said, more slowly:

    In a way, but they needn’t. We could just make it chance.

    I don’t think that would be nearly as satisfactory, Mrs. Parry said. I begin to see my way—the trees perhaps—leaves—to have the leaves of the wood all so helpful to the young people—so charming!

    It’s a terribly sweet idea, said the Watteau young lady. And so true too!

    Pauline, who was sitting next her, said in an undertone: True?

    Don’t you think so? Watteau, whose actual name was Myrtle Fox, asked. "It’s what I always feel—about trees and flowers and leaves and so on—they’re so friendly. Perhaps you don’t notice it so much; I’m rather mystic about nature. Like Wordsworth. I should love to spend days out with nothing but the trees and the leaves and the wind. Only somehow one never seems to have time. But I do believe they’re all breathing in with us, and it’s such a comfort—here, where there are so many trees. Of course, we’ve only to sink into ourselves to find peace—and trees and clouds and so on all help us. One never need be unhappy. Nature’s so terribly good. Don’t you think so, Mr. Stanhope?"

    Stanhope was standing by, silent, while Mrs. Parry communed with her soul and with one or two of her neighbours on the possibilities of dressing the Chorus. He turned his head and answered, That Nature is terribly good? Yes, Miss Fox. You do mean ‘terribly’?

    Why, certainly, Miss Fox said. Terribly—dreadfully—very.

    Yes, Stanhope said again. Very. Only—you must forgive me; it comes from doing so much writing, but when I say ‘terribly’ I think I mean ‘full of terror’. A dreadful goodness.

    I don’t see how goodness can be dreadful, Miss Fox said, with a shade of resentment in her voice. If things are good they’re not terrifying, are they?

    It was you who said ‘terribly’, Stanhope reminded her with a smile, I only agreed.

    And if things are terrifying, Pauline put in, her eyes half-closed and her head turned away as if she asked a casual question rather of the world than of him, can they be good?

    He looked down on her. Yes, surely, he said, with more energy. Are our tremors to measure the Omnipotence?

    We’ll have them in shades of green then, Mrs. Parry broke in, light to dark, with rich gold sashes and embroidery running all over like twigs, and each one carrying a conventionalized bough—different lengths, I think. Dark gold stockings.

    To suggest the trunks? asked Adela’s friend, Hugh Prescott.

    Quite, Mrs. Parry said, and then hesitated. I’m not sure—perhaps we’d better keep the leaf significances. When they’re still—of course they could stand with their legs twined.…

    What, with one another’s? Adela asked, in a conscious amazement.

    My dear child, don’t be absurd, Mrs. Parry said. Each pair of legs just crossed, so—she interlaced her own.

    I could never stand still like that, Miss Fox said, with great conviction.

    You’d have your arms stretched out to people’s shoulders on each side, Mrs. Parry said dubiously, and a little gentle swaying wouldn’t be inappropriate. But perhaps we’d better not risk it. Better have green stockings—we can manage some lovely groupings. Could we call them ‘Chorus of Leaf-Spirits’, Mr. Stanhope?

    Sweet! said Miss Fox. Adela, leaning back to Hugh Prescott, said in a very low voice, I told you, Hugh, she’ll ruin the whole thing. She’s got no idea of mass. She ought to block it violently and leave it without a name. I wouldn’t even have ‘Chorus’. I hope he won’t give way, but he’s rather weak.

    However, Stanhope was, in the politest language, declining to have anything of the sort. Call it the Chorus, he said, or if you like I’ll try and find a name for the leader, and the rest can just dance and sing. But I’m afraid ‘Leaf-Spirits’ would be misleading.

    What about ‘Chorus of Nature-Powers’? asked Miss Fox, but Stanhope only said, smiling, You will try and make the trees friendly, which no one quite understood, and shook his head again.

    Prescott asked: Incidentally, I suppose they will be women?

    Mrs. Parry had said, O, of course, Mr. Prescott, before the question reached her brain. When it did, she added, At least … I naturally took it for granted.… They are feminine, aren’t they?

    Still hankering after mass, Adela said, It sounds to me more like undifferentiated sex force, and ignored Hugh’s murmur, There isn’t much fun in that.

    I don’t know that they were meant to be either male or female, Stanhope said. I told you they were more of an experiment in a different kind of existence. But whether men or women are most like that is another matter. He shed an apologetic smile on Mrs. Parry.

    If they’re going to be leaves, Miss Fox asked, "couldn’t they all wear huge green leaves, so that no one would know if they were wearing knee-breeches or skirts?"

    There was a pause while everyone took this in, then Mrs. Parry said, very firmly, I don’t think that would answer, while Hugh Prescott said to Adela, Chorus of Fig-leaves!

    Why not follow the old pantomime or the present musical comedy, Stanhope asked, and dress your feminine chorus in exquisite masculine costume? That’s what Shakespeare did with his heroines, as often as he could, and made a diagram of something more sharp and wonderful than either. I don’t think you’ll do better. Masculine voices—except boys—would hardly do, nor feminine appearances.

    Mrs. Parry sighed, and everyone contemplated the problem again. Adela Hunt and Hugh Prescott discussed modernity between themselves. Pauline, lying back, like Stanhope, in her chair, was thinking of Stanhope’s phrases, a different life, a terrible good, and wondering if they were related, if this Chorus over which they were spending so much trouble were indeed an effort to shape in verse a good so alien as to be terrifying. She had never considered good as a thing of terror, and certainly she had not supposed a certain thing of terror in her own secret life as any possible good. Nor now; yet there had been an inhumanity in the great and moving lines of the Chorus. She thought, with an anger generous in its origin but proud and narrow in its conclusion, that not many of the audience really cared for poetry or for Stanhope’s poetry—perhaps none but she. He was a great poet, one of a very few, but what would he do if one evening he met himself coming up the drive? Doppelgänger, the learned called it, which was no comfort. Another poet had thought of it; she had had to learn the lines at school, as an extra task because of undone work:

    The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,

    Met his own image walking in the garden.

    She had never done the imposition, for she had had nightmares that night, after reading the lines, and had to go sick for days. But she had always hated Shelley since for making it so lovely, when it wasn’t loveliness but black panic. Shelley never seemed to suggest that the good might be terrible. What would Peter Stanhope do? what could he? if he met himself?

    They were going: people were getting up and moving off. Everyone was being agreeably grateful to Stanhope for his lawn, his tea, and his poetry. In her fear of solitude she attached herself to Adela and Hugh and Myrtle Fox, who were all saying good-bye at once. As he shook hands he said casually: You don’t think they are? and she did not immediately understand the reference to the measurement of Omnipotence by mortal tremors. Her mind was on Myrtle, who lived near her. She hated the pang of gratitude she felt, and hated it more because she despised Miss Fox. But at least she wouldn’t be alone, and the thing she hated most only came, or had so far only come, when she was alone. She stuck close to Myrtle, listening to Adela as they went.

    Pure waste, Adela was saying. Of course, Stanhope’s dreadfully traditional—how continually, Pauline thought, people misused words like dreadful; if they knew what dread was!—but he’s got a kind of weight, only he dissipates it. He undermines his mass. Don’t you think so, Pauline?

    I don’t know, Pauline said shortly, and then added with private and lying malice: I’m no judge of literature.

    Perhaps not, Adela said, "though I think it’s more a question of general sensitiveness. Hugh, did you notice how the Parry talked of significance?

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