THE WINDOWfor what could be more serious than the love of manfor woman, what more commanding, more impress-ive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death; at thesame time these lovers, these people entering into il-lusion glittering eyed, must be danced round withmockery, decorated with garlands.

‘It is a triumph,’ said Mr. Bankes, laying his knifedown for a moment. He had eaten attentively. Itwas tender. It was perfectly cooked. How did shemanage these things in the depths of the country? heasked her. She was a wonderful woman. All his love,all his reverence had returned; and she knew it.

‘It is a French recipe of my grandmother’s,’ saidMrs. Ramsay, speaking with a ring of great pleasurein her voice. Of course it was French. What passesfor cookery in England is an abomination (they agreed).It is putting cabbages in water. It is roasting meattill it is like leather. It is cutting off the deliciousskins of vegetables. ‘In which,’ said Mr. Bankes, ‘allthe virtue of the vegetable is contained.' And thewaste, said Mrs. Ramsay. A whole French familycould live on what an English cook throws away.Spurred on by her sense that William’s affection hadcome back to her, and that everything was all rightagain, and that her suspense was over, and that nowshe was free both to triumph and to mock, she laughed,she gesticulated, till Lily thought, How child-like,how absurd she was, sitting up there with all herbeauty opened again in her, talking about the skinsof vegetables. There was something frightening abouther. She was irresistible. Always she got her own wayin the end, Lily thought. Now she had brought thisoff — Paul and Minta, one might suppose, were en-119
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