TO THE LIGHTHOUSElaughing at some story her husband was telling. Hewas having a joke with Minta about a bet. Thenshe would get up.

She liked Charles Tansley, she thought, suddenly;she liked his laugh. She liked him for being so angrywith Paul and Minta. She liked his awkwardness.There was a lot in that young man after all. AndLily, she thought, putting her napkin beside herplate, she always has some joke of her own. One neednever bother about Lily. She waited. She tucked hernapkin under the edge of her plate. Well, were theydone now? No. That story had led to another story.Her husband was in great spirits to-night, and wish-ing, she supposed, to make it all right with old Au-gustus after that scene about the soup, had drawnhim in — they were telling stories about some onethey had both known at college. She looked at thewindow in which the candle flames burnt brighternow that the panes were black, and looking at thatoutside the voices came to her very strangely, as ifthey were voices at a service in a cathedral, for shedid not listen to the words. The sudden bursts oflaughter and then one voice (Minta’s) speaking alone,reminded her of men and boys crying out the Latinwords of a service in a Roman Catholic cathedral. Shewaited. Her husband spoke. He was repeating some-thing, and she knew it was poetry from the rhythm andthe ring of exaltation and melancholy in his voice:Come out and climb the garden path,Luriana Lurilee.The China rose is all abloom and buzzing withthe yellow bee.130
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