THE WINDOWing about love.) They were both out of things, Mrs.Ramsay had been thinking, both Lily and CharlesTansley. Both suffered from the glow of the othertwo. He, it was clear, felt himself utterly in the cold;no woman would look at him with Paul Rayley inthe room. Poor fellow! Still, he had his dissertation,the influence of somebody upon something: he couldtake care of himself. With Lily it was different. Shefaded, under Minta’s glow; became more incon-spicuous than ever, in her little grey dress with herlittle puckered face and her little Chinese eyes. Every-thing about her was so small. Yet, thought Mrs.Ramsay, comparing her with Minta, as she claimedher help (for Lily should bear her out she talked nomore about her dairies than her husband did abouthis boots — he would talk by the hour about his boots),of the two Lily at forty will be the better. There wasin Lily a thread of something; a flare of something;something of her own which Mrs. Ramsay liked verymuch indeed, but no man would, she feared. Ob-viously, not, unless it were a much older man, likeWilliam Bankes. But then he cared, well, Mrs. Ram-say sometimes thought that he cared, since his wife’sdeath, perhaps for her. He was not ‘in love’ of course;it was one of those unclassified affections of whichthere are so many. Oh but nonsense, she thought,William must marry Lily. They have so many thingsin common. Lily is so fond of flowers. They are bothcold and aloof and rather self-sufficing. She must ar-range for them to take a long walk together.

Foolishly, she had set them opposite each other.That could be remedied to-morrow. If it were fine,they should go for a picnic. Everything seemed pos-123
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