THE WINDOWMr. Ramsay, or something like that. He showedhis uneasiness quite clearly now by saying, withsome irritation, that, anyhow, Scott (or was itShakespeare?) would last him his lifetime. Hesaid it irritably. Everybody, she thought, felta little uncomfortable, without knowing why.Then Minta Doyle, whose instinct was fine, saidbluffly, absurdly, that she did not believe thatany one really enjoyed reading Shakespeare.Mr. Ramsay said grimly (but his mind was turnedaway again) that very few people liked it as muchas they said they did. But, he added, there isconsiderable merit in some of the plays neverthe-less, and Mrs. Ramsay saw that it would be allright for the moment anyhow; he would laughat Minta, and she, Mrs. Ramsay saw, realisinghis extreme anxiety about himself, would, in herown way, see that he was taken care of, and praisehim, somehow or other. But she wished it wasnot necessary: perhaps it was her fault that itwas necessary. Anyhow, she was free now tolisten to what Paul Rayley was trying to say aboutbooks one had read as a boy. They lasted, hesaid. He had read some of Tolstoi at school.There was one he always remembered, but he hadforgotten the name. Russian names were im-possible, said Mrs. Ramsay. "Vronsky," saidPaul. He remembered that because he always167
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