THE WINDOWher picture, and thought, Yes, I shall put the tree fur-ther in the middle; then I shall avoid that awkwardspace. That’s what I shall do. That’s what has beenpuzzling me. She took up the salt cellar and put itdown again on a flower in the pattern in the table-cloth, so as to remind herself to move the tree.

‘It’s odd that one scarcely gets anything worthhaving by post, yet one always wants one’s letters,’said Mr. Bankes.

What damned rot they talk, thought Charles Tans-ley, laying down his spoon precisely in the middle ofhis plate, which he had swept clean, as if, Lily thought(he sat opposite to her with his back to the window pre-

cisely in the middle of view), he were determined tomake sure of his meals. Everything about him hadthat meagre fixity, that bare unloveliness. But never-theless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible todislike anyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes;they were blue, deep set, frightening.

‘Do you write many letters, Mr. Tansley?’ askedMrs. Ramsay, pitying him too, Lily supposed; for thatwas true of Mrs. Ramsay — she pitied men always asas if they lacked something — women never, as if theyhad something. He wrote to his mother; otherwise hedid not suppose he wrote one letter a month, saidMr. Tansley, shortly.

For he was not going to talk the sort of rot thesepeople wanted him to talk. He was not going to becondescended to by these silly women. He had beenreading in his room, and now he came down and itall seemed to him silly, superficial, flimsy. Why didthey dress? He had come down in his ordinary clothes.He had not got any dress clothes. ‘One never gets any-101

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