THE WINDOWand kitchen, set them all aglow; bade him take hisease there, go in and out, enjoy himself. She laughed,she knitted. Standing between her knees, very stiff,James felt all her strength flaring up to be drunk andquenched by the beak of brass, the arid scimitar ofthe male, which smote mercilessly, again and again,demanding sympathy.

He was a failure, he repeated. Well, look then, feelthen. Flashing her needles, glancing round about her,out of the window, into the room, at James himself,she assured him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, by herlaugh, her poise, her competence (as a nurse carryinga light across a dark room assures a fractious child),that it was real; the house was full; the garden blow-ing. If he put implicit faith in her, nothing shouldhurt him; however deep he buried himself or climbedhigh, not for a second should he find himself withouther. So boasting of her capacity to surround and pro-tect, there was scarcely a shell of herself left for herto know herself by; all was so lavished and spent; andJames, as he stood stiff between her knees, felt her risein a rosy-flowered fruit tree laid with leaves and danc-ing boughs into which the beak of brass, the arid sci-mitar of his father, the egotistical man, plunged andsmote, demanding sympathy.

Filled with her words, like a child who drops offsatisfied, he said, at last, looking at her with humblegratitude, restored, renewed, that he would take aturn; he would watch the children playing cricket.He went.

Immediately, Mrs. Ramsay seemed to fold herselftogether, one petal closed in another, and the wholefabric fell in exhaustion upon itself, so that she had47

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