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"
It
is
a
triumph
,
"
said
Mr.
Bankes
,
laying
his
knife
down
for
a
moment
.
He
had
eaten
attentively
.
It
was
rich
;
it
was
tender
.
It
was
perfectly
cooked
.
How
did
she
manage
these
things
in
the
depths
of
the
country
?
he
asked
her
.
She
was
a
wonderful
woman
.
All
his
love
,
all
his
reverence
,
had
returned
;
and
she
knew
it
.
"
It
is
a
French
recipe
of
my
grandmother
's
,
"
said
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
speaking
with
a
ring
of
great
pleasure
in
her
voice
.
Of
course
it
was
French
.
What
passes
for
cookery
in
England
is
an
abomination
(
they
agreed
)
.
It
is
putting
cabbages
in
water
.
It
is
roasting
meat
till
it
is
like
leather
.
It
is
cutting
off
the
delicious
skins
of
vegetables
.
"
In
which
,
"
said
Mr.
Bankes
,
"
all
the
virtue
of
the
vegetable
is
contained
.
"
And
the
waste
,
said
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
A
whole
French
family
could
live
on
what
an
English
cook
throws
away
.
Spurred
on
by
her
sense
that
William
's
affection
had
come
back
to
her
,
and
that
everything
was
all
right
again
,
and
that
her
suspense
was
over
,
and
that
now
she
was
free
both
to
triumph
and
to
mock
,
she
laughed
,
she
gesticulated
,
till
Lily
thought
,
How
childlike
,
how
absurd
she
was
,
sitting
up
there
with
all
her
beauty
opened
again
in
her
,
talking
about
the
skins
of
vegetables
.
There
was
something
frightening
about
her
.
She
was
irresistible
.
Always
she
got
her
own
way
in
the
end
,
Lily
thought
.
Now
she
had
brought
this
off
--
Paul
and
Minta
,
one
might
suppose
,
were
engaged
.
Mr.
Bankes
was
dining
here
.
She
put
a
spell
on
them
all
,
by
wishing
,
so
simply
,
so
directly
,
and
Lily
contrasted
that
abundance
with
her
own
poverty
of
spirit
,
and
supposed
that
it
was
partly
that
belief
(
for
her
face
was
all
lit
up
--
without
looking
young
,
she
looked
radiant
)
in
this
strange
,
this
terrifying
thing
,
which
made
Paul
Rayley
,
sitting
at
her
side
,
all
of
a
tremor
,
yet
abstract
,
absorbed
,
silent
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
Lily
felt
,
as
she
talked
about
the
skins
of
vegetables
,
exalted
that
,
worshipped
that
;
held
her
hands
over
it
to
warm
them
,
to
protect
it
,
and
yet
,
having
brought
it
all
about
,
somehow
laughed
,
led
her
victims
,
Lily
felt
,
to
the
altar
.
It
came
over
her
too
now
--
the
emotion
,
the
vibration
,
of
love
.
How
inconspicuous
she
felt
herself
by
Paul
's
side
!
He
,
glowing
,
burning
;
she
,
aloof
,
satirical
;
he
,
bound
for
adventure
;
she
,
moored
to
the
shore
;
he
,
launched
,
incautious
;
she
solitary
,
left
out
--
and
,
ready
to
implore
a
share
,
if
it
were
a
disaster
,
in
his
disaster
,
she
said
shyly
:
"
When
did
Minta
lose
her
brooch
?
"
He
smiled
the
most
exquisite
smile
,
veiled
by
memory
,
tinged
by
dreams
.
He
shook
his
head
.
"
On
the
beach
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
'm
going
to
find
it
,
"
he
said
,
"
I
'm
getting
up
early
.
"
This
being
kept
secret
from
Minta
,
he
lowered
his
voice
,
and
turned
his
eyes
to
where
she
sat
,
laughing
,
beside
Mr.
Ramsay
.
Lily
wanted
to
protest
violently
and
outrageously
her
desire
to
help
him
,
envisaging
how
in
the
dawn
on
the
beach
she
would
be
the
one
to
pounce
on
the
brooch
half-hidden
by
some
stone
,
and
thus
herself
be
included
among
the
sailors
and
adventurers
.
But
what
did
he
reply
to
her
offer
?
She
actually
said
with
an
emotion
that
she
seldom
let
appear
,
"
Let
me
come
with
you
,
"
and
he
laughed
.
He
meant
yes
or
no
--
either
perhaps
.
But
it
was
not
his
meaning
--
it
was
the
odd
chuckle
he
gave
,
as
if
he
had
said
,
Throw
yourself
over
the
cliff
if
you
like
,
I
do
n't
care
.
He
turned
on
her
cheek
the
heat
of
love
,
its
horror
,
its
cruelty
,
its
unscrupulosity
.
It
scorched
her
,
and
Lily
,
looking
at
Minta
,
being
charming
to
Mr.
Ramsay
at
the
other
end
of
the
table
,
flinched
for
her
exposed
to
these
fangs
,
and
was
thankful
.
For
at
any
rate
,
she
said
to
herself
,
catching
sight
of
the
salt
cellar
on
the
pattern
,
she
need
not
marry
,
thank
Heaven
:
she
need
not
undergo
that
degradation
.
She
was
saved
from
that
dilution
.
She
would
move
the
tree
rather
more
to
the
middle
.
Such
was
the
complexity
of
things
.
For
what
happened
to
her
,
especially
staying
with
the
Ramsays
,
was
to
be
made
to
feel
violently
two
opposite
things
at
the
same
time
;
that
's
what
you
feel
,
was
one
;
that
's
what
I
feel
,
was
the
other
,
and
then
they
fought
together
in
her
mind
,
as
now
.
It
is
so
beautiful
,
so
exciting
,
this
love
,
that
I
tremble
on
the
verge
of
it
,
and
offer
,
quite
out
of
my
own
habit
,
to
look
for
a
brooch
on
a
beach
;
also
it
is
the
stupidest
,
the
most
barbaric
of
human
passions
,
and
turns
a
nice
young
man
with
a
profile
like
a
gem
's
(
Paul
's
was
exquisite
)
into
a
bully
with
a
crowbar
(
he
was
swaggering
,
he
was
insolent
)
in
the
Mile
End
Road
.
Yet
,
she
said
to
herself
,
from
the
dawn
of
time
odes
have
been
sung
to
love
;
wreaths
heaped
and
roses
;
and
if
you
asked
nine
people
out
of
ten
they
would
say
they
wanted
nothing
but
this
--
love
;
while
the
women
,
judging
from
her
own
experience
,
would
all
the
time
be
feeling
,
This
is
not
what
we
want
;
there
is
nothing
more
tedious
,
puerile
,
and
inhumane
than
this
;
yet
it
is
also
beautiful
and
necessary
.
