"There'll be no landing at the Lighthouse tomor-row," said Charles Tansley, clapping his hands to-gether as he stood at the window with her husband.Surely, he had said enough. She wished they wouldboth leave her and James alone and go on talking.She looked at him. He was such a miserable spec-imen, the children said, all humps and hollows. Hecouldn't play cricket; he poked; he shuffled. He wasa sarcastic brute, Andrew said. They knew whathe liked best—to be for ever walking up and down,up and down, with Mr. Ramsay, and saying whohad won this, who had won that, who was a "first-rate man" at Latin verses, who was "brilliant but Ithink fundamentally unsound," who was undoubt-edly the "ablest fellow in Balliol," who had buriedhis light temporarily at Bristol or Bedford, but wasbound to be heard of later when his Prolegomena,of which Mr. Tansley had the first pages in proofwith him if Mr. Ramsay would like to see them,to some branch of mathematics or philosophy sawthe light of day. That was what they talked about.

She could not help laughing herself sometimes.She said, the other day, something about "wavesmountains high." Yes, said Charles Tansley, it wasa little rough. "Aren't you drenched to the skin?"she had said. "Damp, not wet through," said Mr.Tansley, pinching his sleeve, feeling his socks.15
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