THE WINDOWMr. Carmichael, who was basking with his yellowcat's eyes ajar, so that like a cat's they seemed toreflect the branches moving or the clouds passing, butto give no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotionwhatsoever, if he wanted anything.For they were making the great expedition, shesaid, laughing. They were going to the town. 'Stamps,writing-paper, tobacco?' she suggested, stopping byhis side. But no, he wanted nothing. His hands claspedthemselves over his capacious paunch, his eyes blinked,as if he would have liked to reply kindly to theseblandishments (she was seductive but a little nervous)but could not, sunk as he was in a grey-green somno-lence which embraced them all, without need ofwords, in a vast and benevolent lethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all the world; all the peoplein it, for he had slipped into his glass at lunch afew drops of something, which accounted, the chil-dren thought, for the vivid streak of canary-yellowin moustache and beard that were otherwise milk-white. He wanted nothing, he murmured.He should have been a great philosopher, said Mrs.Ramsay, as they went down the road to the fishingvillage, but he had made an unfortunate marriage.Holding her black parasol very erect, and movingwith an indescribable air of expectation, as if shewere going to meet someone round the corner, shetold the story; an affair at Oxford with some girl;an early marriage; poverty; going to India; translat-ing a little poetry 'very beautifully, I believe', beingwilling to teach the boys Persian or Hindustanee,but what really was the use of that?
— and thenlying, as they saw him, on the lawn.15