THE WINDOW

things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance,
keeping house for her father off the Brompton
Road, and had much ado to control her impulse
to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always
resisted so far) at Mrs. Ramsay's knee and say
to her—but what could one say to her ? " I'm
in love with you?" No, that was not true.
" I'm in love with this all", waving her hand
at the hedge, at the house, at the children ?
It was absurd, it was impossible. One could
not say what one meant. So now she laid her
brushes neatly in the box, side by side, and said
to William Bankes:

" It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems to
give less heat," she said, looking about her, for it
was bright enough, the grass still a soft deep
green, the house starred in its greenery with
purple passion flowers, and rooks dropping cool
cries from the high blue. But something moved,
flashed, turned a silver wing in the air. It was
September after all, the middle of September, and
past six in the evening. So off they strolled down
the garden in the usual direction, past the tennis
lawn, past the pampas grass, to that break in the
thick hedge, guarded by red-hot pokers like
brasiers of clear burning coal, between which
the blue waters of the bay looked bluer than
ever,

35