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THE WINDOW 77Jasper shooting birds, and he said, at once, soothingher instantly, that it was natural in a boy, and hetrusted he would find better ways of amusing himselfbefore long. Her husband was so sensible, so just.And so she said: ‘Yes; all children go through stages,'and began considering the dahlias in the big bed, andwondering what about next year’s flowers, and hadhe heard the children's nickname for Charles Tan-sley, she asked. The atheist, they called him, thelittle atheist. ‘He’s not a polished specimen.' saidMr Ramsay. ‘Far from it,’ said Mrs Ramsay.She supposed it was all right leaving him to hisown devices, Mrs Ramsay said, wondering whetherit was any use sending down bulbs; did they plantthem? ‘Oh, he has his dissertation to write,' saidMr Ramsay. She knew all about that, said MrsRamsay. He talked of nothing else. It was aboutthe influence of somebody upon something. ‘Well,it's all he has to count on,’ said Mr Ramsay. ‘PrayHeaven he won’t fall in love with Prue,’ said MrsRamsay. He’d disinherit her if she married him,said Mr Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers,which his wife was considering, but at a spot about afoot or so above them. There was no harm in him,he added, and was just about to say that anyhow hewas the only young man in England who admiredhis—— when he choked it back. He would notbother her again about his books. These flowersseemed creditable, Mr Ramsay said, lowering hisgaze and noticing something red, something brown.Yes, but then these she had put in with her ownhands, said Mrs Ramsay. The question was, whathappened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedy plant