When we’re in the country thought Clarissa. Or shooting. She has a fortnight at Brighton. In some stuffy lodging. The landlady takes the sugar. Nothing would be easier than to send her to Mrs Lumley’s right in the country (and it was on the tip of her tongue). But then she remembered how on their honeymoon Dick had shown her the folly of giving impulsively. It was much more important, he said, to get trade with China. Of course he was right. And she could feel the girl wouldn’t like to be given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Selling gloves was her job. She had her own sorrows quite separate, "and now can never mourn, can never mourn" the words ran in her head, "From the contagion of the world’s slow stain" thought Clarissa holding her arm stiff, for there are moments when it seems utterly futile (the glove was drawn off leaving her arm flecked with powder)—simply one doesn’t believe, thought Clarissa, any more in God.
The traffic suddenly roared; the silk stockings brightened. A customer came in.
"White gloves," she said, with some ring in her voice that Clarissa remembered.
It used, thought Clarissa, to be so simple. Down down through the air came the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, hundreds of years ago, the yew hedges looked so lovely with the diamond webs in the mist before early church. But if Dick were to die to-morrow as for believing in God—no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her hand—Roden, her favourite, killed—she would go on. But why, if one doesn’t believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove in her hand. This girl would be much more unhappy if she didn’t believe.
"Thirty shillings" said the shopwoman. "No, pardon me Madame, thirty-five. The French gloves are more."
For one doesn’t live for oneself, thought Clarissa.
And then the other customer took a glove, tugged it, and it split.
"There!" she exclaimed.
"A fault of the skin," said the grey-headed woman hurriedly.
"Sometimes a drop of acid in tanning. Try this pair, Madame."
"But it’s an awful swindle to ask two pound ten!"
Clarissa looked at the lady; the lady looked at Clarissa.
"Gloves have never been quite so reliable since the war" said the shop-girl, apologizing, to Clarissa.
