And what was she going to call him? her fatherpersisted. He had had a dog when he was a littleboy, called Frisk. She’ll give way, James thought,as he watched a look come upon her face, a look heremembered. They look down, he thought, at theirknitting or something. Then suddenly they lookup. There was a flash of blue, he remembered, andthen somebody sitting with him laughed, surren-dered, and he was very angry. It must have beenhis mother, he thought, sitting on a low chair, withhis father standing over her. He began to searchamong the infinite series of impressions which timehad laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly,incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds;voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, andbrooms tapping; and the wash and hush of the sea,how a man had marched up and down and stoppeddead, upright, over them. Meanwhile, he noticed,Cam dabbled her fingers in the water, and stared atthe shore and said nothing. No, she won’t giveway, he thought; she’s different, he thought. Well,if Cam would not answer him, he would not botherher, Mr Ramsay decided, feeling in his pocket for abook. But she would answer him; she wished, pas-sionately, to move some obstacle that lay upon hertongue and to say, Oh yes, Frisk. I'll call himFrisk. She wanted even to say, Was that the dogthat found its way over the moor alone? But try