"Tell me now . . ." he said. So they argued aboutpolitics, and Lily looked at the leaf on the table-cloth; and Mrs. Ramsay, leaving the argument en-tirely in the hands of the two men, wondered whyshe was so bored by this talk, and wished, lookingat her husband at the other end of the table, thathe would say something. One word, she said to her-self. For if he said a thing, it would make all thedifference. He went to the heart of things. He caredabout fishermen and their wages. He could not sleepfor thinking of them. It was altogether differentwhen he spoke; one did not feel then, pray heavenyou don’t see how little I care, because one did care.Then, realising that it was because she admired himso much that she was waiting for him to speak, shefelt as if somebody had been praising her husbandto her and their marriage, and she glowed all overwithout realising that it was she herself who hadpraised him. She looked at him thinking to find thisin his face; he would be looking magnificent. . . .But not in the least! He was screwing his face up,he was scowling and frowning, and flushing withanger. What on earth was it about? she wondered.What could be the matter? Only that poor oldAugustus had asked for another plate of soup—thatwas all. It was unthinkable, it was detestable (so hesignalled to her across the table) that Augustus143
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