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THE WINDOW 117dish. And she must take great care, Mrs Ramsaythought, diving into the soft mass, to choose aspecially tender piece for William Bankes. Andshe peered into the dish, with its shiny walls andits confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats,and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought: Thiswill celebrate the occasion—a curious sense rising inher, at once freakish and tender, of celebrating afestival, as if two emotions were called up in her, oneprofound—for what could be more serious than thelove of man for woman, what more commanding,more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds ofdeath; at the same time these lovers, these peopleentering into illusion glittering eyed, must be dancedround with mockery, decorated with garlands.

'It is a triumph,' said Mr Bankes, laying his knifedown for a moment. He had eaten attentively. Itwas rich; it was tender. It was perfectly cooked.How did she manage these things in the depths ofthe country? he asked her. She was a wonderfulwoman. All his love, all his reverence had returned;and she knew it.

'It is a French recipe of my grandmother’s,' saidMrs Ramsay, speaking with a ring of great pleasurein her voice. Of course it was French. What passesfor cookery in England is an abomination (theyagreed). It is putting cabbages in water. It isroasting meat till it is like leather. It is cutting offthe delicious skins of vegetables. ‘In which,' saidMr Bankes, 'all the virtue of the vegetable is con-tained.’ And the waste, said Mrs Ramsay. Awhole French family could live on what an Englishcook throws away. Spurred on by her sense thatE 949