TO THE LIGHTHOUSEbody at once so ridiculous and so alarming. But solong as he kept like that, waving, shouting, she wassafe; he would not stand still and look at her pic-ture. And that was what Lily Briscoe could nothave endured. Even while she looked at the mass, atthe line, at the colour, at Mrs. Ramsay sitting inthe window with James, she kept a feeler on hersurroundings lest some one should creep up, andsuddenly she should find her picture looked at. Butnow, with all her senses quickened as they were,looking, straining, till the colour of the wall andthe jacmanna beyond burnt into her eyes, she wasaware of some one coming out of the house, comingtowards her; but somehow divined, from the foot-fall, William Bankes, so that though her brush quiv-ered, she did not, as she would have done had itbeen Mr. Tansley, Paul Rayley, Minta Doyle, orpractically anybody else, turn her canvas upon thegrass, but let it stand. William Bankes stood besideher.

They had rooms in the village, and so, walking in,walking out, parting late on door-mats, had saidlittle things about the soup, about the children,about one thing and another which made themallies; so that when he stood beside her now in hisjudicial way (he was old enough to be her fathertoo, a botanist, a widower, smelling of soap, very30
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