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Mr.
Ramsay
glared
at
them
.
He
glared
at
them
without
seeming
to
see
them
.
That
did
make
them
both
vaguely
uncomfortable
.
Together
they
had
seen
a
thing
they
had
not
been
meant
to
see
.
They
had
encroached
upon
a
privacy
.
So
,
Lily
thought
,
it
was
probably
an
excuse
of
his
for
moving
,
for
getting
out
of
earshot
,
that
made
Mr.
Bankes
almost
immediately
say
something
about
its
being
chilly
and
suggested
taking
a
stroll
.
She
would
come
,
yes
.
But
it
was
with
difficulty
that
she
took
her
eyes
off
her
picture
.
The
jacmanna
was
bright
violet
;
the
wall
staring
white
.
She
would
not
have
considered
it
honest
to
tamper
with
the
bright
violet
and
the
staring
white
,
since
she
saw
them
like
that
,
fashionable
though
it
was
,
since
Mr.
Paunceforte
's
visit
,
to
see
everything
pale
,
elegant
,
semitransparent
.
Then
beneath
the
colour
there
was
the
shape
.
She
could
see
it
all
so
clearly
,
so
commandingly
,
when
she
looked
:
it
was
when
she
took
her
brush
in
hand
that
the
whole
thing
changed
.
It
was
in
that
moment
's
flight
between
the
picture
and
her
canvas
that
the
demons
set
on
her
who
often
brought
her
to
the
verge
of
tears
and
made
this
passage
from
conception
to
work
as
dreadful
as
any
down
a
dark
passage
for
a
child
.
Such
she
often
felt
herself
--
struggling
against
terrific
odds
to
maintain
her
courage
;
to
say
:
"
But
this
is
what
I
see
;
this
is
what
I
see
,
"
and
so
to
clasp
some
miserable
remnant
of
her
vision
to
her
breast
,
which
a
thousand
forces
did
their
best
to
pluck
from
her
.
And
it
was
then
too
,
in
that
chill
and
windy
way
,
as
she
began
to
paint
,
that
there
forced
themselves
upon
her
other
things
,
her
own
inadequacy
,
her
insignificance
,
keeping
house
for
her
father
off
the
Brompton
Road
,
and
had
much
ado
to
control
her
impulse
to
fling
herself
(
thank
Heaven
she
had
always
resisted
so
far
)
at
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
knee
and
say
to
her
--
but
what
could
one
say
to
her
?
"
I
'm
in
love
with
you
?
"
No
,
that
was
not
true
.
"
I
'm
in
love
with
this
all
,
"
waving
her
hand
at
the
hedge
,
at
the
house
,
at
the
children
.
It
was
absurd
,
it
was
impossible
.
So
now
she
laid
her
brushes
neatly
in
the
box
,
side
by
side
,
and
said
to
William
Bankes
:
"
It
suddenly
gets
cold
.
The
sun
seems
to
give
less
heat
,
"
she
said
,
looking
about
her
,
for
it
was
bright
enough
,
the
grass
still
a
soft
deep
green
,
the
house
starred
in
its
greenery
with
purple
passion
flowers
,
and
rooks
dropping
cool
cries
from
the
high
blue
.
But
something
moved
,
flashed
,
turned
a
silver
wing
in
the
air
.
It
was
September
after
all
,
the
middle
of
September
,
and
past
six
in
the
evening
.
So
off
they
strolled
down
the
garden
in
the
usual
direction
,
past
the
tennis
lawn
,
past
the
pampas
grass
,
to
that
break
in
the
thick
hedge
,
guarded
by
red
hot
pokers
like
brasiers
of
clear
burning
coal
,
between
which
the
blue
waters
of
the
bay
looked
bluer
than
ever
.
They
came
there
regularly
every
evening
drawn
by
some
need
.
It
was
as
if
the
water
floated
off
and
set
sailing
thoughts
which
had
grown
stagnant
on
dry
land
,
and
gave
to
their
bodies
even
some
sort
of
physical
relief
.
First
,
the
pulse
of
colour
flooded
the
bay
with
blue
,
and
the
heart
expanded
with
it
and
the
body
swam
,
only
the
next
instant
to
be
checked
and
chilled
by
the
prickly
blackness
on
the
ruffled
waves
.
Then
,
up
behind
the
great
black
rock
,
almost
every
evening
spurted
irregularly
,
so
that
one
had
to
watch
for
it
and
it
was
a
delight
when
it
came
,
a
fountain
of
white
water
;
and
then
,
while
one
waited
for
that
,
one
watched
,
on
the
pale
semicircular
beach
,
wave
after
wave
shedding
again
and
again
smoothly
,
a
film
of
mother
of
pearl
.
They
both
smiled
,
standing
there
.
They
both
felt
a
common
hilarity
,
excited
by
the
moving
waves
;
and
then
by
the
swift
cutting
race
of
a
sailing
boat
,
which
,
having
sliced
a
curve
in
the
bay
,
stopped
;
shivered
;
let
its
sails
drop
down
;
and
then
,
with
a
natural
instinct
to
complete
the
picture
,
after
this
swift
movement
,
both
of
them
looked
at
the
dunes
far
away
,
and
instead
of
merriment
felt
come
over
them
some
sadness
--
because
the
thing
was
completed
partly
,
and
partly
because
distant
views
seem
to
outlast
by
a
million
years
(
Lily
thought
)
the
gazer
and
to
be
communing
already
with
a
sky
which
beholds
an
earth
entirely
at
rest
.
Looking
at
the
far
sand
hills
,
William
Bankes
thought
of
Ramsay
:
thought
of
a
road
in
Westmorland
,
thought
of
Ramsay
striding
along
a
road
by
himself
hung
round
with
that
solitude
which
seemed
to
be
his
natural
air
.
But
this
was
suddenly
interrupted
,
William
Bankes
remembered
(
and
this
must
refer
to
some
actual
incident
)
,
by
a
hen
,
straddling
her
wings
out
in
protection
of
a
covey
of
little
chicks
,
upon
which
Ramsay
,
stopping
,
pointed
his
stick
and
said
"
Pretty
--
pretty
,
"
an
odd
illumination
in
to
his
heart
,
Bankes
had
thought
it
,
which
showed
his
simplicity
,
his
sympathy
with
humble
things
;
but
it
seemed
to
him
as
if
their
friendship
had
ceased
,
there
,
on
that
stretch
of
road
.
After
that
,
Ramsay
had
married
.
After
that
,
what
with
one
thing
and
another
,
the
pulp
had
gone
out
of
their
friendship
.
Whose
fault
it
was
he
could
not
say
,
only
,
after
a
time
,
repetition
had
taken
the
place
of
newness
.
It
was
to
repeat
that
they
met
.
But
in
this
dumb
colloquy
with
the
sand
dunes
he
maintained
that
his
affection
for
Ramsay
had
in
no
way
diminished
;
but
there
,
like
the
body
of
a
young
man
laid
up
in
peat
for
a
century
,
with
the
red
fresh
on
his
lips
,
was
his
friendship
,
in
its
acuteness
and
reality
,
laid
up
across
the
bay
among
the
sandhills
.
