THE WINDOWflourish, took the cover off. The cook had spent threedays over that dish. And she must take great care,Mrs. Ramsay thought, diving into the soft mass, tochoose a specially tender piece for William Bankes.And she peered into the dish, with its shiny wallsand its confusion of savoury brown and yellowmeats and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought.This will celebrate the occasion—a curious senserising in her, at once freakish and tender, of cele-brating a festival, as if two emotions were called upin her, one profound—for what could be more seri-ous than the love of man for woman, what morecommanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosomthe seeds of death; at the same time these lovers,these people entering into illusion glittering eyed,must be danced round with mockery, decorated withgarlands.

"It is a triumph," said Mr. Bankes, laying hisknife down for a moment. He had eaten attentively.It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectly cooked.How did she manage these things in the depths ofthe country? he asked her. She was a wonderfulwoman. All his love, all his reverence, had returned;and she knew it.

“It is a French receipe of my grandmother’s,"said Mrs. Ramsay, speaking with a ring of greatpleasure in her voice. Of course it was French. What151

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