THE YEARS. Virginia Woolf

you, Rose. It’s too heavy. Let Martin carry it; and you can go with him. But don’t stay. Just tell Mama what you’ve been doing; and then the kettle … the kettle… .”

      Here she applied her hairpin to the wick again. A thin puff of steam issued from the serpent-shaped spout. At first intermittent, it gradually became more and more powerful, until, just as they heard steps on the stairs, one jet of powerful steam issued from the spout.

      “It’s boiling!” Milly exclaimed. “It’s boiling!”

      They ate in silence. The sun, judging from the changing lights on the glass of the Dutch cabinet, seemed to be going in and out. Sometimes a bowl shone deep blue; then became livid. Lights rested furtively upon the furniture in the other room. Here was a pattern; here was a bald patch. Somewhere there’s beauty, Delia thought, somewhere there’s freedom, and somewhere, she thought, he is—wearing his white flower… . But a stick grated in the hall.

      “It’s Papa!” Milly exclaimed warningly.

      Instantly Martin wriggled out of his father’s armchair; Delia sat upright. Milly at once moved forward a very large rose-sprinkled cup that did not match the rest. The Colonel stood at the door and surveyed the group rather fiercely. His small blue eyes looked round them as if to find fault; at the moment there was no particular fault to find; but he was out of temper; they knew at once before he spoke that he was out of temper.

      “Grubby little ruffian,” he said, pinching Rose by the ear as he passed her. She put her hand at once over the stain on her pinafore.

      “Mama all right?” he said, letting himself down in one solid mass into the big armchair. He detested tea; but he always sipped a little from the huge old cup that had been his father’s. He raised it and sipped perfunctorily.

      “And what have you all been up to?” he asked.

      He looked round him with the smoky but shrewd gaze that could be genial, but was surly now.

      “Delia had her music lesson, and I went to Whiteley’s—” Milly began, rather as if she were a child reciting a lesson.

      “Spending money, eh?” said her father sharply, but not unkindly.

      “No, Papa; I told you. They sent the wrong sheets—”

      “And you, Martin?” Colonel Pargiter asked, cutting short his daughter’s statement. “Bottom of the class as usual?”

      “Top!” shouted Martin, bolting the word out as if he had restrained it with difficulty until this moment.

      “Hm—you don’t say so,” said his father. His gloom relaxed a little. He put his hand into his trouser pocket and brought out a handful of silver. His children watched him as he tried to single out one sixpence from all the florins. He had lost two fingers of the right hand in the Mutiny, and the muscles had shrunk so that the right hand resembled the claw of some aged bird. He shuffled and fumbled; but as he always ignored the injury, his children dared not help him. The shiny knobs of the mutilated fingers fascinated Rose.

      “Here you are, Martin,” he said at length, handing the sixpence to his son. Then he sipped his tea again and wiped his moustaches.

      “Where’s Eleanor?” he said at last, as if to break the silence.

      “It’s her Grove day,” Milly reminded him.

      “Oh, her Grove day,” muttered the Colonel. He stirred the sugar round and round in the cup as if to demolish it.

      “The dear old Levys,” said Delia tentatively. She was his favourite daughter; but she felt uncertain in his present mood how much she could venture.

      He said nothing.

      “Bertie Levy’s got six toes on one foot,” Rose piped up suddenly. The others laughed. But the Colonel cut them short.

      “You hurry up and get off to your prep., my boy,” he said, glancing at Martin, who was still eating.

      “Let him finish his tea, Papa,” said Milly, again imitating the manner of an older person.

      “And the new nurse?” the Colonel asked, drumming on the edge of the table. “Has she come?”

      “Yes … ” Milly began. But there was a rustling in the hall and in came Eleanor. It was much to their relief; especially to Milly’s. Thank goodness, there’s Eleanor she thought, looking up—the soother, the maker-up of quarrels, the buffer between her and the intensities and strifes of family life. She adored her sister. She would have called her goddess and endowed her with a beauty that was not hers, with clothes that were not hers, had she not been carrying a pile of little mottled books and two black gloves. Protect me, she thought, handing her a teacup, who am such a mousy, downtrodden inefficient little chit, compared with Delia, who always gets her way, while I’m always snubbed by Papa, who was grumpy for some reason. The Colonel smiled at Eleanor. And the red dog on the hearthrug looked up too and wagged his tail, as if he recognised her for one of those satisfactory women who give you a bone, but wash their hands afterwards. She was the eldest of the daughters, about twenty-two, no beauty, but healthy, and though tired at the moment, naturally cheerful.

      “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got kept. And I didn’t expect—” She looked at her father.

      “I got off earlier than I thought,” he said hastily. “The meeting—” he stopped short. There had been another row with Mira.

      “And how’s your Grove, eh?” he added.

      “Oh, my Grove—” she repeated; but Milly handed her the covered dish.

      “I got kept,” Eleanor said again, helping herself. She began to eat; the atmosphere lightened.

      “Now tell us, Papa,” said Delia boldly—she was his favourite daughter—“what you’ve been doing with yourself. Had any adventures?”

      The remark was unfortunate.

      “There aren’t any adventures for an old fogy like me,” said the Colonel surlily. He ground the grains of sugar against the walls of his cup. Then he seemed to repent of his gruffness; he pondered for a moment.

      “I met old Burke at the Club; asked me to bring one of you to dinner; Robin’s back, on leave,” he said.

      He drank up his tea. Some drops fell on his little pointed beard. He took out his large silk handkerchief and wiped his chin impatiently. Eleanor, sitting on her low chair, saw a curious look first on Milly’s face, then on Delia’s. She had an impression of hostility between them. But they said nothing. They went on eating and drinking until the Colonel took up his cup, saw there was nothing in it, and put it down firmly with a little chink. The ceremony of tea-drinking was over.

      “Now, my boy, take yourself off and get on with your prep.,” he said to Martin.

      Martin withdrew the hand that was stretched towards a plate.

      “Cut along,” said the Colonel imperiously. Martin got up and went, drawing his hand reluctantly along the chairs and tables as if to delay his passage. He slammed the door rather sharply behind him. The Colonel rose and stood upright among them in his tightly buttoned frock-coat.

      “And I must be off too,” he said. But he paused a moment, as if there was nothing particular for him to be off to. He stood there very erect among them, as if he wished to give some order, but could not at the moment think of any order to give. Then he recollected.

      “I wish one of you would remember,” he said, addressing his daughters impartially, “to write to Edward… . Tell him to write to Mama.”

      “Yes,” said Eleanor.

      He moved towards the door. But he stopped.

      “And let me know when Mama wants to see me,” he remarked. Then he paused and pinched his youngest daughter by the ear.

      “Grubby little ruffian,” he said, pointing to the green stain