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THE WINDOWview of his work. What a waste HB: Pencil mark for galley 35of time it allgal.35was to be sure! Yet, he thought, she is one ofmy oldest friends. I am by way of being devotedoutsetgal35to her. Yet now, at this moment HB: Pencil lassoed.her presencemeant absolutely nothing to him: her beautyoutsetgal35meant nothing to him; her HB: Pencil lassoed. —peter.shillingsburgsitting with her littleboy at the window—nothing, nothing. He wishedonly to be alone and to take up that book. Hefelt uncomfortable; he felt treacherous, that hecould sit by her side and feel nothing for her.The truth was that he did not enjoy family life.It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself,What does one live for? Why, one asked one-self, does one take all these pains for the humanrace to go on? Is it so very desirable? Are weattractive as a species? Not so very, he thought,looking at those rather untidy boys. His fav-ourite, Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolishquestions, vain questions, questions one neverasked if one was occupied. Is human life this?Is human life that? One never had time to thinkabout it. But here he was asking himself that sortof question, because Mrs. Ramsay was givingorders to servants, and also because it had struckhim, thinking how surprised Mrs. Ramsay wasthat Carrie Manning should still exist, that friend-ships, even the best of them, are frail things. Onedrifts apart. He reproached himself again. He139
