THE WINDOW

putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his
magnificent head before her—who will blame
him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?

7

But his son hated him. He hated him for
coming up to them, for stopping and looking
down on them; he hated him for interrupting
them; he hated him for the exaltation and sub-
limity of his gestures; for the magnificence of
his head; for his exactingness and egotism (for
there he stood, commanding them to attend to
him); but most of all he hated the twang and
twitter of his father's emotion which, vibrating
round them, disturbed the perfect simplicity and
good sense of his relations with his mother. By
looking fixedly at the page, he hoped to make
him move on; by pointing his finger at a word,
he hoped to recall his mother's attention, which,
he knew angrily, wavered instantly his father
stopped. But no. Nothing would make Mr.
Ramsay move on. There he stood, demanding
sympathy.

Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely,
folding her son in her arm, braced herself, and,
half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort,
and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of

61