TO THE LIGHTHOUSEuntil at last one seemed to be on a narrow plank, per-fectly alone, over the sea. And as she dipped into theblue paint, she dipped too into the past there. NowMrs. Ramsay got up, she remembered. It was time togo back to the house — time for luncheon. And theyall walked up from the beach together, she walkingbehind with William Bankes, and there was Minta infront of them with a hole in her stocking. How thatlittle round hole of pink heel seemed to flaunt itselfbefore them! How William Bankes deplored it, with-out, so far as she could remember, saying anythingabout it! It meant to him the annihilation of woman-hood, and dirt and disorder, and servants leaving andbeds not made at midday — all the things he mostabhorred. He had a way of shuddering and spreadinghis fingers out as if to cover an unsightly object, whichhe did now — holding his hand in front of him. AndMinta walked on ahead, and presumably Paul met herand she went off with Paul in the garden.

The Rayleys, thought Lily Briscoe, squeezing hertube of green paint. She collected her impressions ofthe Rayleys. Their lives appeared to her in a series ofscenes; one, on the staircase at dawn. Paul had comein and gone to bed early; Minta was late. There wasMinta, wreathed, tinted, garish, on the stairs aboutthree o’clock in the morning. Paul came out in hispyjamas carrying a poker in case of burglars. Mintawas eating a sandwich, standing half-way up by awindow, in the cadaverous early morning light, andthe carpet had a hole in it. But what did they say?Lily asked herself, as if by looking she could hearthem. Something violent. Minta went on eating hersandwich, annoyingly, while he spoke. He spoke indig-200

Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials
 

View Pane