THE WINDOW

the huge brown pot in which was the Boeuf en
Daube—for her own part she liked her boobies.
Paul must sit by her. She had kept a place for
him, Really, she sometimes thought she liked
the boobies best. They did not bother one with
their dissertations. How much they missed,
after all, these very clever men! How dried up
they did become, to be sure. There was some-
thing, she thought as he sat down, very charming
about Paul. His manners were delightful to her,
and his sharp cut nose and his bright blue eyes.
He was so considerate. Would he tell her—now
that they were all talking again—what had
happened?

" We went back to look for Minta's brooch,"
he said, sitting down by her, " We "—that was
enough. She knew from the effort, the rise in his
voice to surmount a difficult word that it was the
first time he had said " we ". " We " did this,
"we " did that. They'll say that all their lives, she
thought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oil
and juice rose from the great brown dish as
Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off.
The cook had spent three days over that dish.
And she must take great care, Mrs. Ramsay
thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a
specially tender piece for William Bankes. And
she peered into the dish, with its shiny walls and