She had taken the wrong brush in her agitation atMr. Ramsay’s presence, and her easel, rammed intothe earth so nervously, was at the wrong angle. Andnow that she had put that right, and in so doing hadsubdued the impertinences and irrelevances thatplucked her attention and made her remember howshe was such and such a person, had such and suchrelations to people, she took her hand and raised herbrush. For a moment it stayed trembling in a painfulbut exciting ecstasy in the air. Where to begin? — thatwas the question; at what point to make the firstmark? One line placed on the canvas committed herto innumerable risks, to frequent and irrevocable deci-sions. All that in idea seemed simple became in prac-tice immediately complex; as the waves shape them-selves symmetrically from the cliff top, but to theswimmer among them are divided by steep gulfs, andfoaming crests. Still the risk must be run; the markmade.

With a curious physical sensation, as if she wereurged forward and at the same time must hold herselfback, she made her first quick decisive stroke. Thebrush descended. It flickered brown over the whitecanvas; it left a running mark. A second time she didit — a third time. And so pausing and so flickering,she attained a dancing rhythmical movement, as ifthe pauses were one part of the rhythm and the strokesanother, and all were related; and so, lightly and swift-ly pausing, striking, she scored her canvas with brown183