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“And even if it isn’t fine tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay, glancing at William Bankes and Lily Briscoe as they passed, “it will be another day. And now, James, stand up, and let me measure your leg,”

William and Lily must marry – she took the stocking, and measured it against James’s leg.

“My dear, stand still,” she said.

She looked up and saw the room, saw the chairs. They were fearfully shabby. But what was the point, she asked, of buying good chairs? The rent was low; the children loved the house. It is very good for her husband to be three hundred miles from his libraries and his lectures and his disciples; and there was room for visitors. Mats, camp beds, crazy ghosts of chairs and tables; and a photograph or two, and books. She never had time to read them. Alas! She sighed and saw the whole room from floor to ceiling, as she held the stocking against James’s leg. Things got shabbier and shabbier summer after summer. The mat was fading; the wall-paper was flapping. You can’t tell anymore that those were roses on it.

But it was the doors that annoyed her; every door was left open. She listened. The drawing-room door was open; the hall door was open. It sounded as if the bedroom doors were open. Certainly the window was open. That windows must be open, and doors shut – it’s simple. Can’t they remember it?

She had a spasm of irritation, and spoke sharply to James:

“Stand still. Don’t be tiresome.”

He knew instantly that her severity was real. He straightened his leg and she measured it.

The stocking was too short. It was the stocking for Sorley’s little boy, and he was less well grown than James.

“It’s too short,” she said.

Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black. A tear formed; a tear fell. Never did anybody look so sad.

Mrs. Ramsay smoothed out her harsh manner, raised his head, and kissed her little boy on the forehead.

“Let us find another picture to cut out,” she said.