THE WINDOWboth would be off in spasms of laughter in anothersecond, she knew, and so she said promptly (indeedit was time):

"Light the candles," and they jumped up in-stantly and went and fumbled at the sideboard.

Why could he never conceal his feelings? Mrs.Ramsay wondered, and she wondered if AugustusCarmichael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhapshe had not. She could not help respecting the com-posure with which he sat there, drinking hissoup. If he wanted soup, he asked for soup.Whether people laughed at him or were angry withhim he was the same. He did not like her, she knewthat; but partly for that very reason she respectedhim, and looking at him, drinking soup, very largeand calm in the failing light, and monumental, andcontemplative, she wondered what he did feel then,and why he was always content and dignified; andshe thought how devoted he was to Andrew, andwould call him into his room, and Andrew said,"show him things." And there he would lie all daylong on the lawn brooding presumably over hispoetry, till he reminded one of a cat watching birds,and then he clapped his paws together when he hadfound the word, and her husband said, "Poor oldAugustus—he’s a true poet," which was high praisefrom her husband.145
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