THE WINDOWsee whether those were fresh mole-hills on the bank,then, she thought, stooping down to look, a great mindlike his must be different in every way from ours. Allthe great men she had ever known, she thought, de-ciding that a rabbit must have got in, were like that,and it was good for young men (though the atmosphereof lecture-rooms was stuffy and depressing to her be-yond endurance almost) simply to hear him, simplyto look at him. But without shooting rabbits, how wasone to keep them down? she wondered. It might be arabbit; it might be a mole. Some creature anyhowwas ruining her Evening Primroses. And looking up,she saw above the thin trees the first pulse of the full-throbbing star, and wanted to make her husband lookat it; for the sight gave her such keen pleasure. Butshe stopped herself. He never looked at things. If hedid, all he would say would be, Poor little world, withone of his sighs.

At that moment, he said, ‘Very fine,’ to please her,and pretended to admire the flowers. But she knewquite well that he did not admire them, or evenrealise that they were there. It was only to please her. . .Ah, but was that not Lily Briscoe strolling along withWilliam Bankes? She focused her short-sighted eyesupon the backs of a retreating couple. Yes, indeed itwas. Did that not mean that they would marry? Yes,it must! What an admirable idea! They must marry!13

He had been to Amsterdam, Mr. Bankes was sayingas he strolled across the lawn with Lily Briscoe. Hehad seen the Rembrandts. He had been to Madrid.85
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