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They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. She felt flattered. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. At last he could bear it no longer. . "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint.
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