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THE WINDOW 105thoughts; nevertheless speaking French imposessome order, some uniformity. Replying to her inthe same language, Mr Bankes said: ‘No, not at all,'and Mr Tansley, who had no knowledge of this lan-guage, even spoken thus in words of one syllable, atonce suspected its insincerity. They did talk non-sense, he thought, the Ramsays; and he pounced onthis fresh instance with joy, making a note which,one of these days, he would read aloud, to one or twofriends. There, in a society where one could saywhat one liked, he would sarcastically describe ‘stay-ing with the Ramsays’ and what nonsense theytalked. It was worth while doing it once, he wouldsay; but not again. The women bored one so, hewould say. Of course Ramsay had dished himselfby marrying a beautiful woman and having eightchildren. It would shape itself something like that,but now, at this moment, sitting stuck there with anempty seat beside him nothing had shaped itself atall. It was all in scraps and fragments. He feltextremely, even physically, uncomfortable. Hewanted somebody to give him a chance of assertinghimself. He wanted it so urgently that he fidgetedin his chair, looked at this person, then at that person,tried to break into their talk, opened his mouth andshut it again. They were talking about the fishingindustry. Why did no one ask him his opinion?What did they know about the fishing industry?

Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite himcould she not see, as in an X-ray photograph, theribs and thigh bones of the young man's desire toimpress himself lying dark in the mist of his flesh—that thin mist which convention had laid over his