THE WINDOWNancy were with them (she tried again, unsuccessfully,to visualise their backs going down the path, and tocount them). She was responsible to Minta’s parents— the Owl and the Poker. Her nicknames for themshot into her mind as she read. The Owl and the Poker— yes, they would be annoyed if they heard — andthey were certain to hear — that Minta, staying withthe Ramsays, had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etce-tera. ‘He wore a wig in the House of Commons andshe ably assisted him at the head of the stairs,’ sherepeated, fishing them up out of her mind by a phrasewhich, coming back from some party, she had made toamuse her husband. Dear, dear, Mrs. Ramsay said toherself, how did they produce this incongruous daugh-ter? this tomboy Minta, with a hole in her stocking?How did she exist in that portentous atmosphere wherethe maid was always removing in a dust-pan the sandthat the parrot had scattered, and conversation wasalmost entirely reduced to the exploits — interestingperhaps, but limited after all — of that bird? Naturally,one had asked her to lunch, tea, dinner, finally to staywith them up at Finlay, which had resulted in somefriction with the Owl, her mother, and more calling,and more conversation, and more sand, and really atthe end of it, she had told enough lies about parrotsto last her a lifetime (so she had said to her husbandthat night, coming back from the party). However,Minta came. . . Yes, she came, Mrs. Ramsay thought,suspecting some thorn in the tangle of this thought;and disengaging it found it to be this: a woman hadonce accused her of ‘robbing her of her daughter’saffections’; something Mrs. Doyle had said made herremember that charge again. Wishing to dominate,69
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