James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see thewhite-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; hecould see that it was barred with black and white; hecould see windows in it; he could even see washingspread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse,was it?

No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothingwas simply one thing. The other was the Lighthousetoo. It was sometimes hardly to be seen across thebay. In the evening one looked up and saw the eyeopening and shutting and the light seemed to reachthem in that airy sunny garden where they sat.

But he pulled himself up. Whenever he said ‘they’or ‘a person’, and then began hearing the rustle ofsome one coming, the tinkle of some one going, hebecame extremely sensitive to the presence of whoevermight be in the room. It was his father now. Thestrain became acute. For in one moment if there wasno breeze, his father would slap the covers of hisbook together, and say: ‘What’s happening now? Whatare we dawdling about here for, eh?’ as, once beforehe had brought his blade down among them on theterrace and she had gone stiff all over, and if therehad been an axe handy, a knife, or anything witha sharp point he would have seized it and struckhis father through the heart. His mother had gonestiff all over, and then, her arm slackening, so thathe felt she listened to him no longer, she had risensomehow and gone away and left him there, impotent,ridiculous, sitting on the floor grasping a pair of scis-sors.216