THE WINDOWand Mrs. Ramsay, leaving the argument entirely inthe hands of the two men, wondered why she was sobored by this talk, and wished, looking at her husbandat the other end of the table, that he would say some-thing. One word, she said to herself. For if he said athing, it would make all the difference. He went tothe heart of things. He cared about fishermen andtheir wages. He could not sleep for thinking of them.It was altogether different when he spoke; one didnot feel then, pray heaven you don’t see how littleI care, because one did care. Then, realising that itwas because she admired him so much that she waswaiting for him to speak, she felt as if somebody hadbeen praising her husband to her and their marriage,and she glowed all over without realising that it wasshe herself who had praised him. She looked at himthinking to find this shown in his face; he would belooking magnificent. . . But not in the least! He wasscrewing his face up, he was scowling and frowning,and flushing with anger. What on earth was it about?she wondered. What could be the matter? Only thatpoor old Augustus had asked for another plate of soup— that was all. It was unthinkable, it was detestable(so he signalled to her across the table) that Augustusshould be beginning his soup over again. He loathedpeople eating when he had finished. She saw his angerfly like a pack of hounds into his eyes, his brow, andshe knew that in a moment something violent wouldexplode, and then — but thank goodness! she saw himclutch himself and clap a brake on the wheel, and thewhole of his body seemed to emit sparks but notwords. He sat there scowling. He had said nothing,he would have her observe. Let her give him the credit111
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