THE WINDOW

easily, both at the same time; for the story of
the Fisherman and his Wife was like the bass
gently accompanying a tune, which now and then
ran up unexpectedly into the melody. And when
should she be told? If nothing happened, she
would have to speak seriously to Minta. For she
could not go trapesing about all over the country,
even if Nancy were with them (she tried again,
unsuccessfully, to visualise their backs going down
the path, and to count them). She was responsible
to Minta's parents—the Owl and the Poker. Her
nicknames for them shot into her mind as she
read. The Owl and the Poker—yes, they would
be annoyed if they heard—and they were certain
to hear—that Minta, staying with the Ramsays,
had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. " He
wore a wig in the House of Commons and she ably
assisted him at the head of the stairs," she repeated,
fishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which,
coming back from some party, she had made to
amuse her husband. Dear, dear, Mrs. Ramsay
said to herself, how did they produce this in-
congruous daughter? this tomboy Minta, with a
hole in her stocking? How did she exist in that
portentous atmosphere where the maid was always
removing in a dust-pan the sand that the parrot
had scattered, and conversation was almost en-
tirely reduced to the exploits—interesting perhaps,

9*