THE WINDOWold rag, menially, on purpose. She took shelter fromthe reverence which covered all women; she feltherself praised. Let him gaze; she would steal a lookat her picture.

She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, itwas infinitely bad! She could have done it differ-ently of course; the colour could have been thinnedand faded; the shapes etherealised; that was howPaunceforte would have seen it. But then she didnot see it like that. She saw the colour burning ona framework of steel; the light of a butterfly’s winglying upon the arches of a cathedral. Of all thatonly a few random marks scrawled upon the canvasremained. And it would never be seen; never behung even, and there was Mr. Tansley whisperingin her ear, "Women can’t paint, women can’twrite . . ."

She now remembered what she had been goingto say about Mrs. Ramsay. She did not know howshe would have put it; but it would have been some-thing critical. She had been annoyed the other nightby some highhandedness. Looking along the level ofMr. Bankes's glance at her, she thought that nowoman could worship another woman in the wayhe worshipped; they could only seek shelter underthe shade which Mr. Bankes extended over themboth. Looking along his beam she added to it her75
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