TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to restin the extreme obscurity of human relationships.Who knows what we are, what we feel? Who knowseven at the moment of intimacy, This is knowledge?Aren’t things spoilt then, Mrs. Ramsay may haveasked (it seemed to have happened so often, thissilence by her side) by saying them? Aren’t we moreexpressive thus? The moment at least seemed ex-traordinarily fertile. She rammed a little hole in thesand and covered it up, by way of burying in itthe perfection of the moment. It was like a drop ofsilver in which one dipped and illumined the dark-ness of the past.

Lily stepped back to get her canvas—so—intoperspective. It was an odd road to be walking, thisof painting. Out and out one went, further andfurther, until at last one seemed to be on a narrowplank, perfectly alone, over the sea. And as shedipped into the blue paint, she dipped too into thepast there. Now Mrs. Ramsay got up, she remem-bered. It was time to go back to the house—time forluncheon. And they all walked up from the beachtogether, she walking behind with William Bankes,and there was Minta in front of them with a holein her stocking. How that little round hole of pinkheel seemed to flaunt itself before them! HowWilliam Bankes deplored it, without, so far as she256

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