THE WINDOWlooked at them. She liked his eyes; they were blue,deep set, frightening.

"Do you write many letters, Mr. Tansley?" askedMrs. Ramsay, pitying him too, Lily supposed; forthat was true of Mrs. Ramsay—she pitied menalways as if they lacked something—women never,as if they had something. He wrote to his mother;otherwise he did not suppose he wrote one letter amonth, said Mr. Tansley, shortly.

For he was not going to talk the sort of rot thesepeople wanted him to talk. He was not going to becondescended to by these silly women. He had beenreading in his room, and now he came down and itall seemed to him silly, superficial, flimsy. Why didthey dress? He had come down in his ordinaryclothes. He had not got any dress clothes. "Onenever gets anything worth having by the post"—thatwas the sort of thing they were always saying. Theymade men say that sort of thing. Yes, it was prettywell true, he thought. They never got anything worthhaving from one year's end to another. They didnothing but talk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat. It was thewomen's fault. Women made civilisation impossiblewith all their "charm," all their silliness.

"No going to the Lighthouse tomorrow, Mrs.Ramsay," he said, asserting himself. He liked her;he admired her; he still thought of the man in the129
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