THE WINDOWputting his pipe in his pocket and bending hismagnificent head before her—who will blamehim if he does homage to the beauty of the world?7But his son hated him. He hated him forcoming up to them, for stopping and lookingdown on them; he hated him for interruptingthem; he hated him for the exaltation and sub-limity of his gestures; for the magnificence ofhis head; for his exactingness and egotism (forthere he stood, commanding them to attend tohim); but most of all he hated the twang andtwitter of his father’s emotion which, vibratinground them, disturbed the perfect simplicity andgood sense of his relations with his mother. Bylooking fixedly at the page, he hoped to makehim move on; by pointing his finger at a word,he hoped to recall his mother’s attention, which,he knew angrily, wavered instantly his fatherstopped. But no. Nothing would make Mr.Ramsay move on. There he stood, demandingsympathy.
Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely,folding her son in her arm, braced herself, and,half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort,and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of61
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