TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwearing a grey hat; she was not more than nineteenor twenty. She was astonishingly beautiful. Therehe stood looking down the avenue at HamptonCourt as if he could see her there among thefountains.

She looked now at the drawing-room step. Shesaw, through William’s eyes, the shape of a woman,peaceful and silent, with downcast eyes. She satmusing, pondering (she was in grey that day, Lilythought). Her eyes were bent. She would neverlift them. Yes, thought Lily, looking intently, I musthave seen her look like that, but not in grey; nor sostill, nor so young, nor so peaceful. The figure camereadily enough. She was astonishingly beautiful, asWilliam said. But beauty was not everything.Beauty had this penalty—it came too readily, cametoo completely. It stilled life—froze it. One forgotthe little agitations; the flush, the pallor, somequeer distortion, some light or shadow, which madethe face unrecognisable for a moment and yetadded a quality one saw for ever after. It wassimpler to smooth that all out under the cover ofbeauty. But what was the look she had, Lily won-dered, when she clapped her deer-stalker’s hat onher head, or ran across the grass, or scoldedKennedy, the gardener? Who could tell her? Whocould help her?264
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