THE WINDOW

They had rooms in the village, and so, walking
in, walking out, parting late on door-mats, had
said little things about the soup, about the
children, about one thing and another which made
them allies; so that when he stood beside her
now in his judicial way (he was old enough to be
her father too, a botanist, a widower, smelling of
soap, very scrupulous and clean) she just stood
there. He just stood there. Her shoes were
excellent, he observed. They allowed the toes
their natural expansion. Lodging in the same
house with her, he had noticed too, how orderly
she was, up before breakfast and off to paint, he
believed, alone: poor, presumably, and without the
complexion or the allurement of Miss Doyle
certainly, but with a good sense which made her
in his eyes superior to that young lady. Now,
for instance, when Ramsay bore down on themf,
shouting, gesticulating, Miss Briscoe, he felt
certain, understood.

Someone had blundered.

Mr. Ramsay glared at them. He glared at
them without seeming to see them. That did
make them both vaguely uncomfortable. To-
gether they had seen a thing they had not been
meant to see. They had encroached upon a
privacy. So, Lily thought, it was probably an
excuse of his for moving, for getting out of
c 33