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What
did
it
all
mean
?
To
this
day
she
had
no
notion
.
A
square
root
?
What
was
that
?
Her
sons
knew
.
She
leant
on
them
;
on
cubes
and
square
roots
;
that
was
what
they
were
talking
about
now
;
on
Voltaire
and
Madame
de
Stael
;
on
the
character
of
Napoleon
;
on
the
French
system
of
land
tenure
;
on
Lord
Rosebery
;
on
Creevey
's
Memoirs
:
she
let
it
uphold
her
and
sustain
her
,
this
admirable
fabric
of
the
masculine
intelligence
,
which
ran
up
and
down
,
crossed
this
way
and
that
,
like
iron
girders
spanning
the
swaying
fabric
,
upholding
the
world
,
so
that
she
could
trust
herself
to
it
utterly
,
even
shut
her
eyes
,
or
flicker
them
for
a
moment
,
as
a
child
staring
up
from
its
pillow
winks
at
the
myriad
layers
of
the
leaves
of
a
tree
.
Then
she
woke
up
.
It
was
still
being
fabricated
.
William
Bankes
was
praising
the
Waverly
novels
.
He
read
one
of
them
every
six
months
,
he
said
.
And
why
should
that
make
Charles
Tansley
angry
?
He
rushed
in
(
all
,
thought
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
because
Prue
will
not
be
nice
to
him
)
and
denounced
the
Waverly
novels
when
he
knew
nothing
about
it
,
nothing
about
it
whatsoever
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
thought
,
observing
him
rather
than
listening
to
what
he
said
.
She
could
see
how
it
was
from
his
manner
--
he
wanted
to
assert
himself
,
and
so
it
would
always
be
with
him
till
he
got
his
Professorship
or
married
his
wife
,
and
so
need
not
be
always
saying
,
"
I
--
I
--
I.
"
For
that
was
what
his
criticism
of
poor
Sir
Walter
,
or
perhaps
it
was
Jane
Austen
,
amounted
to
.
"
I
--
I
--
I.
"
He
was
thinking
of
himself
and
the
impression
he
was
making
,
as
she
could
tell
by
the
sound
of
his
voice
,
and
his
emphasis
and
his
uneasiness
.
Success
would
be
good
for
him
.
At
any
rate
they
were
off
again
.
Now
she
need
not
listen
.
It
could
not
last
,
she
knew
,
but
at
the
moment
her
eyes
were
so
clear
that
they
seemed
to
go
round
the
table
unveiling
each
of
these
people
,
and
their
thoughts
and
their
feelings
,
without
effort
like
a
light
stealing
under
water
so
that
its
ripples
and
the
reeds
in
it
and
the
minnows
balancing
themselves
,
and
the
sudden
silent
trout
are
all
lit
up
hanging
,
trembling
.
So
she
saw
them
;
she
heard
them
;
but
whatever
they
said
had
also
this
quality
,
as
if
what
they
said
was
like
the
movement
of
a
trout
when
,
at
the
same
time
,
one
can
see
the
ripple
and
the
gravel
,
something
to
the
right
,
something
to
the
left
;
and
the
whole
is
held
together
;
for
whereas
in
active
life
she
would
be
netting
and
separating
one
thing
from
another
;
she
would
be
saying
she
liked
the
Waverly
novels
or
had
not
read
them
;
she
would
be
urging
herself
forward
;
now
she
said
nothing
.
For
the
moment
,
she
hung
suspended
.
"
Ah
,
but
how
long
do
you
think
it
'll
last
?
"
said
somebody
.
It
was
as
if
she
had
antennae
trembling
out
from
her
,
which
,
intercepting
certain
sentences
,
forced
them
upon
her
attention
.
This
was
one
of
them
.
She
scented
danger
for
her
husband
.
A
question
like
that
would
lead
,
almost
certainly
,
to
something
being
said
which
reminded
him
of
his
own
failure
.
How
long
would
he
be
read
--
he
would
think
at
once
.
William
Bankes
(
who
was
entirely
free
from
all
such
vanity
)
laughed
,
and
said
he
attached
no
importance
to
changes
in
fashion
.
Who
could
tell
what
was
going
to
last
--
in
literature
or
indeed
in
anything
else
?
"
Let
us
enjoy
what
we
do
enjoy
,
"
he
said
.
His
integrity
seemed
to
Mrs.
Ramsay
quite
admirable
.
He
never
seemed
for
a
moment
to
think
,
But
how
does
this
affect
me
?
But
then
if
you
had
the
other
temperament
,
which
must
have
praise
,
which
must
have
encouragement
,
naturally
you
began
(
and
she
knew
that
Mr.
Ramsay
was
beginning
)
to
be
uneasy
;
to
want
somebody
to
say
,
Oh
,
but
your
work
will
last
,
Mr.
Ramsay
,
or
something
like
that
.
He
showed
his
uneasiness
quite
clearly
now
by
saying
,
with
some
irritation
,
that
,
anyhow
,
Scott
(
or
was
it
Shakespeare
?
)
would
last
him
his
lifetime
.
He
said
it
irritably
.
Everybody
,
she
thought
,
felt
a
little
uncomfortable
,
without
knowing
why
.
Then
Minta
Doyle
,
whose
instinct
was
fine
,
said
bluffly
,
absurdly
,
that
she
did
not
believe
that
any
one
really
enjoyed
reading
Shakespeare
.
Mr.
Ramsay
said
grimly
(
but
his
mind
was
turned
away
again
)
that
very
few
people
liked
it
as
much
as
they
said
they
did
.
But
,
he
added
,
there
is
considerable
merit
in
some
of
the
plays
nevertheless
,
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
saw
that
it
would
be
all
right
for
the
moment
anyhow
;
he
would
laugh
at
Minta
,
and
she
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
saw
,
realising
his
extreme
anxiety
about
himself
,
would
,
in
her
own
way
,
see
that
he
was
taken
care
of
,
and
praise
him
,
somehow
or
other
.
But
she
wished
it
was
not
necessary
:
perhaps
it
was
her
fault
that
it
was
necessary
.
Anyhow
,
she
was
free
now
to
listen
to
what
Paul
Rayley
was
trying
to
say
about
books
one
had
read
as
a
boy
.
They
lasted
,
he
said
.
He
had
read
some
of
Tolstoi
at
school
.
There
was
one
he
always
remembered
,
but
he
had
forgotten
the
name
.
Russian
names
were
impossible
,
said
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
"
Vronsky
,
"
said
Paul
.
He
remembered
that
because
he
always
thought
it
such
a
good
name
for
a
villain
.
"
Vronsky
,
"
said
Mrs.
Ramsay
;
"
Oh
,
ANNA
KARENINA
,
"
but
that
did
not
take
them
very
far
;
books
were
not
in
their
line
.
No
,
Charles
Tansley
would
put
them
both
right
in
a
second
about
books
,
but
it
was
all
so
mixed
up
with
,
Am
I
saying
the
right
thing
?
Am
I
making
a
good
impression
?
that
,
after
all
,
one
knew
more
about
him
than
about
Tolstoi
,
whereas
,
what
Paul
said
was
about
the
thing
,
simply
,
not
himself
,
nothing
else
.
Like
all
stupid
people
,
he
had
a
kind
of
modesty
too
,
a
consideration
for
what
you
were
feeling
,
which
,
once
in
a
way
at
least
,
she
found
attractive
.
Now
he
was
thinking
,
not
about
himself
,
or
about
Tolstoi
,
but
whether
she
was
cold
,
whether
she
felt
a
draught
,
whether
she
would
like
a
pear
.
No
,
she
said
,
she
did
not
want
a
pear
.
Indeed
she
had
been
keeping
guard
over
the
dish
of
fruit
(
without
realising
it
)
jealously
,
hoping
that
nobody
would
touch
it
.
Her
eyes
had
been
going
in
and
out
among
the
curves
and
shadows
of
the
fruit
,
among
the
rich
purples
of
the
lowland
grapes
,
then
over
the
horny
ridge
of
the
shell
,
putting
a
yellow
against
a
purple
,
a
curved
shape
against
a
round
shape
,
without
knowing
why
she
did
it
,
or
why
,
every
time
she
did
it
,
she
felt
more
and
more
serene
;
until
,
oh
,
what
a
pity
that
they
should
do
it
--
a
hand
reached
out
,
took
a
pear
,
and
spoilt
the
whole
thing
.
In
sympathy
she
looked
at
Rose
.
She
looked
at
Rose
sitting
between
Jasper
and
Prue
.
How
odd
that
one
's
child
should
do
that
!
How
odd
to
see
them
sitting
there
,
in
a
row
,
her
children
,
Jasper
,
Rose
,
Prue
,
Andrew
,
almost
silent
,
but
with
some
joke
of
their
own
going
on
,
she
guessed
,
from
the
twitching
at
their
lips
.
It
was
something
quite
apart
from
everything
else
,
something
they
were
hoarding
up
to
laugh
over
in
their
own
room
.
It
was
not
about
their
father
,
she
hoped
.
No
,
she
thought
not
.
What
was
it
,
she
wondered
,
sadly
rather
,
for
it
seemed
to
her
that
they
would
laugh
when
she
was
not
there
.
There
was
all
that
hoarded
behind
those
rather
set
,
still
,
mask-like
faces
,
for
they
did
not
join
in
easily
;
they
were
like
watchers
,
surveyors
,
a
little
raised
or
set
apart
from
the
grown-up
people
.
But
when
she
looked
at
Prue
tonight
,
she
saw
that
this
was
not
now
quite
true
of
her
.
She
was
just
beginning
,
just
moving
,
just
descending
.
