“Most. So inconsiderate too, because I couldn’t bear to think of a kipper lying in the garden, and we all had to go out and look for it after breakfast. Thomas found it, didn’t you, my pet?”

It was funny, as recounted by Mrs. Ramsay, and Elizabeth laughed, but privately she wondered what she would think if ever Stephen did such a thing in her presence. Something of this was reflected in her face, for, after a pause, Mrs. Ramsay said,

“You mustn’t think that throwing kippers out of the window is one of Stephen’s vices, my dear. In fact, I’ve never known him do it before or since. On that particular occasion something had gone wrong with his novel, and he vented his wrath on the kipper. Careless of me to have offered him one.”

“I shall take good care never to have kippers,” Elizabeth remarked. “But seriously, Mrs. Ramsay, will you tell me all his likes and dislikes, and—and—that sort of thing?”

“I would if I could,” Mrs. Ramsay assured her, with a disarming smile. “Only I can’t, because I don’t remember. If I think of anything I’ll write it down on a piece of paper and lose it. And I can’t tell you anything about housekeeping, because I’m a very bad housekeeper. I never know what day the washing comes home, or whether I’ve paid the books or not. You won’t have to worry about that unless you want to, because Nana housekeeps at Queen’s Halt. Nana is Stephen’s old nurse; such a treasure. She knows everything.”

“I expect she’ll teach me then,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Is she—very formidable?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s rather fussy about not bringing mud into the house, and I don’t think she approves of Stephen’s books, but she’s really quite harmless. She’ll like you, I expect. By the way, when are you going to get married, or don’t you know?”

“Oh, I—we—haven’t thought about that yet!” Elizabeth said, shrinking. “There’s—there’s heaps of time.”

“I shouldn’t hurry it too much,” Mrs. Ramsay said. “Stephen will want to carry you off at once, but—oh, I’d wait a little while!”

Elizabeth looked at her, and again the thought came to her that Mrs. Ramsay did not want Stephen to marry her. She began to fumble with the bead-bag she carried.

“Why, Mrs. Ramsay?” she asked hesitantly.

“Because you don’t know one another very well yet, my dear. Do I sound as though I were being nasty? I’m not a bit really. Only Stephen’s the queerest creature on God’s earth, and it would be better for you if you knew what sort of moods he was likely to have, before you married him.”

“Moods ...” Elizabeth repeated. “Is he—moody?”