Still she could say nothing; the whole horizon seemedswept bare of objects to talk about; could only feel,amazedly, as Mr. Ramsay stood there, how his gazeseemed to fall dolefully over the sunny grass and dis-colour it, and cast over the rubicund, drowsy, entirelycontented figure of Mr. Carmichael, reading a Frenchnovel on a deck-chair, a veil of crape, as if such anexistence, flaunting its prosperity in a world of woe,were enough to provoke the most dismal thoughts ofall. Look at him, he seemed to be saying, look atme; and indeed, all the time he was feeling, Thinkof me, think of me. Ah, could that bulk only be waft-ed alongside of them, Lily wished; had she onlypitched her easel a yard or two closer to him; a man,any man, would staunch this effusion, would stopthese lamentations. A woman, she had provoked thishorror; a woman, she should have known how todeal with it. It was immensely to her discredit, sex-ually, to stand there dumb. One said — what did onesay? — Oh, Mr. Ramsay! Dear Mr. Ramsay! Thatwas what that kind old lady who sketched, Mrs.Beckwith, would have said instantly, and rightly. Butno. They stood there, isolated from the rest of the