TO THE LIGHTHOUSEshowed his uneasiness quite clearly now by saying,with some irritation, that, anyhow, Scott (or was itShakespeare?) would last him his lifetime. He saidit irritably. Everybody, she thought, felt a littleuncomfortable, without knowing why. Then MintaDoyle, whose instinct was fine, said bluffly, absurdly,that she did not believe that any one really enjoyedreading Shakespeare. Mr. Ramsay said grimly (buthis mind was turned away again) that very fewpeople liked it as much as they said they did. But,he added, there is considerable merit in some of theplays nevertheless, and Mrs. Ramsay saw that itwould be all right for the moment anyhow; he wouldlaugh at Minta, and she, Mrs. Ramsay saw, realis-ing his extreme anxiety about himself, would, inher own way, see that he was taken care of, andpraise him, somehow or other. But she wished itwas not necessary: perhaps it was her fault that itwas necessary. Anyhow, she was free now to listento what Paul Rayley was trying to say about booksone had read as a boy. They lasted, he said. Hehad read some of Tolstoi at school. There was onehe always remembered, but he had forgotten thename. Russian names were impossible, said Mrs.Ramsay. "Vronsky," said Paul. He remembered thatbecause he always thought it such a good name fora villain. "Vronsky," said Mrs. Ramsay; "Oh, Anna162
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