THE WINDOW1'YES, of course, if it’s fine to-morrow,’ said Mrs.Ramsay. ‘But you’ll have to be up with the lark,’she added.To her son these words conveyed an extraordinaryjoy, as if it were settled the expedition were bound totake place, and the wonder to which he had lookedforward, for years and years it seemed, was, aftera night’s darkness and a day’s sail, within touch.Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that greatclan which cannot keep this feeling separate fromthat, but must let future prospects, with their joysand sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand, since tosuch people even in earliest childhood any turn inthe wheel of sensation has the power to crystalliseand transfix the moment upon which its gloom orradiance rests, James Ramsay, sitting on the floorcutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue ofthe Army and Navy Stores, endowed the picture ofa refrigerator as his mother spoke with heavenly bliss.It was fringed with joy. The wheelbarrow, the lawn-mower, the sound of poplar trees, leaves whiteningbefore rain, rooks cawing, brooms knocking, dressesrustling — all these were so coloured and distinguishedin his mind that he had already his private code, hissecret language, though he appeared the image ofstark and uncompromising severity, with his high fore-head and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candidand pure, frowning slightly at the sight of human7
