THE WINDOWCharles Tansley had been saying (she looked upas if she expected to hear the crash of books onthe floor above), had been saying that people don’tread Scott any more. Then her husband thought,"That’s what they’ll say of me;" so he went and gotone of those books. And if he came to the conclusion"That’s true" what Charles Tansley said, he wouldaccept it about Scott. (She could see that he wasweighing, considering, putting this with that as heread.) But not about himself. He was always uneasyabout himself. That troubled her. He would alwaysbe worrying about his own books—will they be read,are they good, why aren’t they better, what dopeople think of me? Not liking to think of himso, and wondering if they had guessed at dinner whyhe suddenly became irritable when they talkedabout fame and books lasting, wondering if thechildren were laughing at that, she twitched thestocking out, and all the fine gravings came drawnwith steel instruments about her lips and forehead,and she grew still like a tree which has been tossingand quivering and now, when the breeze falls,settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet.

It didn’t matter, any of it, she thought. A greatman, a great book, fame—who could tell? She knewnothing about it. But it was his way with him, histruthfulness—for instance at dinner she had been177

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