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THE WINDOWKarenina," but that did not take them very far;books were not in their line. No, Charles Tansleywould put them both right in a second about books,but it was all so mixed up with, Am I saying theright thing? Am I making a good impression? that,after all, one knew more about him than about Tol-stoi, whereas, what Paul said was about the thing,simply, not himself, nothing else. Like all stupidpeople, he had a kind of modesty too, a considera-tion for what you were feeling, which, once in away at least, she found attractive. Now he wasthinking, not about himself or about Tolstoi, butwhether she was cold, whether she felt a draught,whether she would like a pear.No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeedshe had been keeping guard over the dish of fruit(without realising it) jealously, hoping that nobodywould touch it. Her eyes had been going in and outamong the curves and shadows of the fruit, amongthe rich purples of the lowland grapes, then overthe horny ridge of the shell, putting a yellow againsta purple, a curved shape against a round shape,without knowing why she did it, or why, every timeshe did it, she felt more and more serene; until, oh,what a pity that they should do it—a hand reachedout, took a pear, and spoilt the whole thing. Insympathy she looked at Rose. She looked at Rose163
