believe that it was the same room.  It had looked so bare and so bright and formal on that night when they came into it out of the darkness; it had been filled, too, with little red, excited faces, always moving, and people so brightly dressed and so animated that they did not seem in the least like real people, nor did you feel that you could talk to them.  And now the room was dim and quiet, and beautiful silent people passed through it, to whom you could go and say anything you liked.  She felt herself amazingly secure as she sat in her arm-chair, and able to review not only the night of the dance, but the entire past, tenderly and humorously, as if she had been turning in a fog for a long time, and could now see exactly where she had turned.  For the methods by which she had reached her present position, seemed to her very strange, and the strangest thing about them was that she had not known where they were leading her.  That was the strange thing, that one did not know where one was going, or what one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret, always unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing led to another and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing, and so one reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty, and it was this process that people called living.  Perhaps, then, every one really knew as she knew now where they were going; and things formed themselves into a pattern not only for her, but for them, and in that pattern lay satisfaction and meaning.  When she looked back she could see that a meaning of some kind was apparent in the lives of her aunts, and in the brief visit of the Dalloways whom she would never see again, and in the life of her father.

The sound of Terence, breathing deep in his slumber, confirmed her in her calm.  She was not sleepy although she did not see anything very distinctly, but although the figures passing through the hall became vaguer and vaguer, she believed that they all knew exactly where they were going, and the sense of their certainty filled her with comfort.  For the moment she was as detached and disinterested as if she had no longer any lot in life, and she thought that she could now accept anything that came to her without being perplexed by the form in which it appeared.  What was there to frighten or to perplex in the prospect of life?  Why should this insight ever again desert her?  The world was in truth so large, so hospitable, and after all it was so simple.  “Love,” St. John had said, “that seems to explain it all.”  Yes, but it was not the love of man for woman, of Terence for Rachel.  Although they sat so close together, they had ceased to be little separate bodies; they had ceased to struggle and desire one another.  There seemed to be peace between them.  It might be love, but it was not the love of man for woman.