112 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEdown the long table sending these questions andanswers across, each knowing exactly what the otherfelt). Everybody could see, Mrs Ramsay thought.There was Rose gazing at her father, there was Rogergazing at his father; both would be off in spasms oflaughter in another second, she knew, and so she saidpromptly (indeed it was time):

‘Light the candles,’ and they jumped up instantlyand went and fumbled at the sideboard.

Why could he never conceal his feelings? MrsRamsay wondered, and she wondered if AugustusCarmichael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhapshe had not. She could not help respecting the com-posure with which he sat there, drinking his soup.If he wanted soup he asked for soup. Whetherpeople laughed at him or were angry with him hewas the same. He did not like her, she knew that;but partly for that very reason she respected him,and looking at him, drinking soup, very large andcalm in the failing light, and monumental, and con-templative, she wondered what he did feel then, andwhy he was always content and dignified; and shethought how devoted he was to Andrew, and wouldcall him into his room, and, Andrew said, 'show himthings.’ And there he would lie all day long on thelawn brooding presumably over his poetry, till hereminded one of a cat watching birds, and then heclapped his paws together when he had found theword, and her husband said: ‘Poor old Augustus—he’s a true poet,’ which was high praise from herhusband.

Now eight candles were stood down the table, andafter the first stoop the flames stood upright and

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