Why could he never conceal his feelings? Mrs. Ram-say wondered, and she wondered if Augustus Carmi-chael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhaps he hadnot. She could not help respecting the composure withwhich he sat there, drinking his soup. If he wantedsoup, he asked for soup. Whether people laughed athim or were angry with him he was the same. He didnot like her, she knew that; but partly for that veryreason she respected him, and looking at him, drink-ing soup, very large and calm in the failing light, andmonumental, and contemplative, she wondered whathe did feel then, and why he was always content anddignified; and she thought how devoted he was toAndrew, and would call him into his room, and, An-drew said, ‘show him things’. And there he would lieall day long on the lawn brooding presumably overhis poetry, till he reminded one of a cat watchingbirds, and then he clapped his paws together when hehad found the word, and her husband said, ‘Poor oldAugustus — he’s a true poet,’ which was high praisefrom her husband.

Now eight candles were stood down the table, andafter the first stoop the flames stood upright and drewwith them into visibility the long table entire, and inthe middle a yellow and purple dish of fruit. Whathad she done with it, Mrs. Ramsay wondered, forRose’s arrangement of the grapes and pears, of thehorny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, made her think114