the golden mob of the proletariat, surrounded by a showy white fence of the idle rich.’

‘How hateful — your hateful social orders!’ she cried.

‘Quite! It’s a daisy — we’ll leave it alone.’

‘Do. Let it be a dark horse for once,’ she said: ‘if anything can be a dark horse to you,’ she added satirically.

They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned, they both were motionless, barely conscious. The little conflict into which they had fallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonal forces, there in contact.

He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say something, to get on to a new more ordinary footing.