TO THE LIGHTHOUSEagain. Say anything, she begged, looking at him,as if for help.

He was silent, swinging the compass on his watch-chain to and fro, and thinking of Scott's novels andBalzac's novels. But through the crepuscular wallsof their intimacy, for they were drawing together,involuntarily, coming side by side, quite close, shecould feel his mind like a raised hand shadowing hermind; and he was beginning, now that her thoughtstook a turn he disliked—towards this "pessimism"as he called it—to fidget, though he said nothing,raising his hand to his forehead, twisting a lock ofhair, letting it fall again.

"You won't finish that stocking tonight," he said,pointing to her stocking. That was what she wanted—the asperity in his voice reproving her. If he saysit's wrong to be pessimistic probably it is wrong,she thought; the marriage will turn out all right.

"No," she said, flattening the stocking out uponher knee, "I shan't finish it."

And what then? For she felt that he was stilllooking at her, but that his look had changed. Hewanted something—wanted the thing she alwaysfound it so difficult to give him; wanted her to tellhim that she loved him. And that, no, she could notdo. He found talking so much easier than she did.184
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