Clarissa guessed; Clarissa knew of course; she had seen something
white, magical, circular, in the footman’s hand, a disc inscribed
with a name,- the
Queen’s, the Prince of Wales’s, the Prime Minister’s? -- which, by
force of its own lustre, burnt its way through (Clarissa saw the car
diminishing, disappearing), to blaze among candelabras, glittering
stars, breasts stiff with oak leaves, Hugh Whitbread and all his
colleagues, the gentlemen of England, that night in Buckingham
Palace. And Clarissa, too, gave a party. She stiffened a little; so
she would stand at the top of her stairs.