At that instant a maid came in carrying a great dish.  "Put it down
there", Mrs. Ramsey said, helping the Swiss girl to put gently before
her the huge brown pot in which was the Boeuf-en-Daube.  An exquisite
scent of olives and oil and juice rose as Marthe, with a little
flourish, took the cover off.  Mrs. Ramsey peered into the dish, with
its shiny walls and its confusion of sav'ry brown and yellow meats,
and its bay leaves and its wine, and said, speaking with great
pleasure in her voice "It is a French recipe of my grandmother's." 
She waited. Her husband spoke.  He was repeating something and she
knew it was poetry from the rhythm and the ring of exultation and
melancholy in his voice:


 Come out and climb the garden path
 Luriana, Lurilee
 The China rose is all abloom
 and buzzing with the yellow bee.*

She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemed
to be spoken by her own voice.

 Come out and climb the garden path
 Luriana, Lurilee
 To see the Kings go riding by
 Over lawn and daisy lea
 With their palm leaves and cedar
 Luriana, Lurilee,
 Luriana, Lurilee

He turned slightly towards her repeating the last words:
"Luriana, Lurilee, Luriana, Lurilee" and bowed to her as if he did her
homage.