THE WINDOWwith his yellow cat’s eyes ajar, so that like a cat’sthey seemed to reflect the branches moving or theclouds passing, but to give no inkling of any innerthoughts or emotion whatsoever, if he wanted any-thing.For they were making the great expedition, shesaid, laughing. They were going to the town."Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco?" she suggested,stopping by his side. But no, he wanted nothing.His hands clasped themselves over his capaciouspaunch, his eyes blinked, as if he would have likedto reply kindly to these blandishments (she wasseductive but a little nervous) but could not, sunkas he was in a grey-green somnolence which em-braced them all, without need of words, in a vastand benevolent lethargy of well-wishing; all thehouse; all the world; all the people in it, for hehad slipped into his glass at lunch a few drops ofsomething, which accounted, the children thought,for the vivid streak of canary-yellow in moustacheand beard that were otherwise milk white. No,nothing, he murmured.He should have been a great philosopher, saidMrs. Ramsay, as they went down the road to thefishing village, but he had made an unfortunatemarriage. Holding her black parasol very erect, andmoving with an indescribable air of expectation, as19
