TO THE LIGHTHOUSEterrace and the house were smoothed away now andpeace dwelt there.

‘Jasper,’ she said sullenly. He’d look after the puppy.

And what was she going to call him? her father per-sisted. He had had a dog when he was a little boy,called Frisk. She’ll give way, James thought, as hewatched a look come upon her face, a look he remem-bered. They look down, he thought, at their knittingor something. Then suddenly they look up. Therewas a flash of blue, he remembered, and then somebodysitting with him laughed, surrendered, and he wasvery angry. It must have been his mother, he thought,sitting on a low chair, with his father standing overher. He began to search among the infinite series ofimpressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf,fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain;among scents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet;and lights passing, and brooms tapping; and the washand hush of the sea, how a man had marched up anddown and stopped dead, upright, over them. Mean-while, he noticed, Cam dabbled her fingers in thewater, and stared at the shore and said nothing. No,she won’t give way, he thought; she’s different, hethought. Well, if Cam would not answer him, hewould not bother her, Mr. Ramsay decided, feeling inhis pocket for a book. But she would answer him; shewished, passionately, to move some obstacle that layupon her tongue and to say, Oh yes, Frisk. I’ll callhim Frisk. She wanted even to say, Was that the dogthat found its way over the moor alone? But try as shemight, she could think of nothing to say like that,fierce and loyal to the compact, yet passing on to herfather, unsuspected by James, a private token of the196
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