THE WINDOWher hand and raised it to his lips and kissed itwith an intensity that brought the tears to hereyes, and quickly he dropped it.

They turned away from the view and began towalk up the path where the silver—green spear-likeplants grew, arm in arm. His arm was almost likea young man’s arm, Mrs. Ramsay thought, thinand hard, and she thought with delight how stronghe still was, though he was over sixty, and howuntamed and optimistic, and how strange it wasthat being convinced, as he was, of all sorts ofhorrors, seemed not to depress him, but to cheerhim. Was it not odd, she reflected? Indeed heseemed to her sometimes made differently fromother people, born blind, deaf, and dumb, to theordinary things, but to the extraordinary things,with an eye like an eagle’s. His understandingoften astonished her. But did he notice theflowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Didhe even notice his own daughter’s beauty, orwhether there was pudding on his plate or roastbeef? He would sit at table with them like aperson in a dream. And his habit of talking aloud,or saying poetry aloud, was growing on him, shewas afraid; for sometimes it was awkwardBest and brightest, come away!poor Miss Giddings, when he shouted that at her,1 1 1