apprehensions and sad memories, obliterating for a moment all that was or might be unhappy in the past or in the future.  George yielded to it.  He abandoned his preoccupations about the unsatisfactoriness of using somebody else’s car in the absence of the owner, about Mr. and Mrs. Ingram’s ignorance of the fact that their daughter had gone off alone with him, about Lois’s perfect indifference to this fact, about the engagement of Laurencine to a man not her equal in worth, about the strange, uncomfortable effect of Laurencine’s engagement upon his attitude towards Lois, and finally and supremely about the competition.  He gave himself up to the bright warmth like an animal, and forgot.  And he became part of the marvellous and complicated splendour of the scene, took pride in it, took even credit for it (Heaven knew why!), and gradually passed from insular astonishment to a bland, calm acceptance of the miracles of sensuous beatitude which civilization had to offer.

After all, he was born to such experiences; they were his right; and he was equal to them.  Nevertheless his conviction of the miraculous fortunately was not impaired.  What was impaired was his conviction of his own culture.  He was constantly thinking that he knew everything or could imagine everything, and constantly undergoing the shock of undeception; but the shock of the Longchamps Sunday was excessive.  He had quite failed to imagine the race-meeting; he had imagined an organism brilliant, perhaps, but barbaric and without form and style; he had imagined grotesque contrasts of squalor, rascality, and fashion; he had imagined an affair predominantly equine and masculine.  The reality did not correspond; it transcended his imagination; it painfully demonstrated his jejune crudity.  The Hippodrome was as formalized and stylistic as an Italian garden; the only contrasts were those of one elegance with another; horses were not to be seen, except occasionally in the distance when under their riders they shot past some dark background a flitting blur of primary colours with a rumble of muffled thunder; and women, not men, predominated.

On entering the Hippodrome George and Lois had met a group of fashionably attired women, and he had thought:  “There’s a bunch of jolly well-dressed ones.”  But as the reserved precincts opened out before him he saw none but fashionably attired women.  They were there not in hundreds but in thousands.  They sat in rows on the grand stands; they jostled each other on the staircases; they thronged the alleys and swards.  The men were negligible beside them.  And they were not only fashionably and very fashionably attired—­all their frocks and all their hats and all their parasols and all their boots were new, glittering, spick-and-span; were complex and expensive; not one feared the sun.  The conception of what those innumerable chromatic toilettes had cost in the toil, stitch by stitch, of malodorous workrooms and in the fatigue of pale,