THE WINDOWware pot) seemed now for no special reason tostay there like a smoke, like a fume rising upwards,holding them safe together. Nothing need besaid; nothing could be said. There it was, allround them. It partook, she felt, carefullyhelping Mr. Bankes to a specially tender piece,of eternity; as she had already felt about some-thing different once before that afternoon; thereis a coherence in things, a stability; something,she meant, is immune from change, and shinesout (she glanced at the window with its ripple ofreflected lights) in the face of the flowing, thefleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that againto-night she had the feeling she had had onceto-day already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments,she thought, the thing is made that remains forever after. This would remain.

"Yes," she assured William Bankes, "thereis plenty for everybody."

"Andrew," she said, “hold your plate lower,or I shall spill it." (The Bœuf en Daube was aperfect triumph.) Here, she felt, putting thespoon down, was the still space that lies about theheart of things, where one could move or rest;could wait now (they were all helped) listening;could then, like a hawk which lapses suddenlyfrom its high station, flaunt and sink on laughtereasily, resting her whole weight upon what at the163
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