THE WINDOW

her and admire her? Was it not secretly this that
she wanted, and therefore when Mr. Carmichael
shrank away from her, as he did at this moment,
making off to some corner where he did acrostics
endlessly, she did not feel merely snubbed back
in her instinct, but made aware of the pettiness
of some part of her, and of human relations, how
flawed they are, how despicable, how self-seeking,
at their best. Shabby and worn out, and not pre-
sumably (her cheeks were hollow, her hair was
white) any longer a sight that filled the eyes with
joy, she had better devote her mind to the story
of the Fisherman and his Wife and so pacify that
bundle of sensitiveness (none of her children was
as sensitive as he was) her son James,

" The man's heart grew heavy," she read
aloud, " and he would not go. He said to
himself, * It is not right/ and yet he went. And
when he came to the sea the water was quite
purple and dark blue, and grey and thick, and no
longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet.
And he stood there and said-------"

Mrs. Ramsay could have wished that her
husband had not chosen that moment to stop.
Why had he not gone as he said to watch the
children playing cricket? But he did not speak;
he looked; he nodded; he approved; he went on.
He slipped seeing before him that hedge which