THE WINDOWYet, she said to herself, from the dawn of time odeshave been sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses;and if you asked nine people out of ten they wouldsay they wanted nothing but this—love; while thewomen, judging from her own experience, would allthe time be feeling, This is not what we want; thereis nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumane thanthis; yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Wellthen, well then? she asked, somehow expecting theothers to go on with the argument, as if in an argu-ment like this one threw one's own little bolt whichfell short obviously and left the others to carry iton. So she listened again to what they were sayingin case they should throw any light upon the ques-tion of love.

"Then," said Mr. Bankes, "there is that liquid theEnglish call coffee."

"Oh, coffee!" said Mrs. Ramsay. But it was muchrather a question (she was thoroughly roused, Lilycould see, and talked very emphatically) of realbutter and clean milk. Speaking with warmth andeloquence, she described the iniquity of the Englishdairy system, and in what state milk was deliveredat the door, and was about to prove her charges, forshe had gone into the matter, when all round thetable, beginning with Andrew in the middle, likea fire leaping from tuft to tuft of furze, her children155
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