About this story
A backfiring motorcar and a skywriting aeroplane stop London in its tracks, and an old friend's mention of Bourton carries you back thirty years before you are home again, mending a torn green dress. Your husband has gone to a luncheon that pointedly did not include you — and before the seam is finished, Peter Walsh, unannounced and freshly back from India, is asking for you at the door.
How it opens
Morning opened over Westminster with bells, motors, and a clean edge of June.
LucyMrs Dalloway, the florist can send whatever you choose before luncheon.
You fastened your hat while servants carried silver toward the evening ahead.
Richard DallowayLeave the flowers to Lucy; the streets are already crowded.
LucyMadam said she would buy them herself, and the sentence sounded final.
Choose
A party begins with one errand nobody delegates.
I need the walk more than the flowers need choosing.