THE WINDOWthat by the way Mr. Ramsay told her not to be afool. She sat beside him, smiling.

It must have happened then, thought Mrs. Ram-say; they are engaged. And for a moment she feltwhat she had never expected to feel again—jealousy.For he, her husband, felt it too—Minta’s glow; heliked these girls, these golden-reddish girls, withsomething flying, something a little wild and harum-scarum about them, who didn’t "scrape their hairoff," weren’t, as he said about poor Lily Briscoe,". . . skimpy." There was some quality which sheherself had not, some lustre, some richness, whichattracted him, amused him, led him to make fa-vourites of girls like Minta. They might cut his hairfrom him, plait him watch-chains, or interrupt himat his work, hailing him (she heard them), "Comealong, Mr. Ramsay; it’s our turn to beat them now,"and out he came to play tennis.

But indeed she was not jealous, only, now andthen, when she made herself look in her glass alittle resentful that she had grown old, perhaps,by her own fault. (The bill for the greenhouse andall the rest of it.) She was grateful to them forlaughing at him. (“How many pipes have yousmoked today, Mr. Ramsay?" and so on), till heseemed a young man; a man very attractive towomen, not burdened, not weighed down with thegreatness of his labours and the sorrows of the149
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