TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwith greyish-brown sails, which she saw now flattenitself upon the water and shoot off across the bay.There he sits, she thought, and the children arequite silent still. And she could not reach him either.The sympathy she had not given him weighed herdown. It made it difficult for her to paint.

She had always found him difficult. She never hadbeen able to praise him to his face, she remembered.And that reduced their relationship to somethingneutral, without that element of sex in it which madehis manner to Minta so gallant, almost gay. Hewould pick a flower for her, lend her his books. Butcould he believe that Minta read them? She draggedthem about the garden, sticking in leaves to markthe place.

"D’you remember, Mr. Carmichael?" she wasinclined to ask, looking at the old man. But he hadpulled his hat half over his forehead; he was asleep,or he was dreaming, or he was lying there catchingwords, she supposed.

"D’you remember?" she felt inclined to ask himas she passed him, thinking again of Mrs. Ramsayon the beach; the cask bobbing up and down; andthe pages flying. Why, after all these years had thatsurvived, ringed round, lit up, visible to the lastdetail, with all before it blank and all after it blank,for miles and miles?254
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