THE LIGHTHOUSEflicked her needles to and fro, knitted her reddish-brown stocking, cast her shadow on the step. Thereshe sat.

And as if she had something she must share, yetcould hardly leave her easel, so full her mind was ofwhat she was thinking, of what she was seeing, Lilywent past Mr. Carmichael holding her brush to theedge of the lawn. Where was that boat now? Mr.Ramsay? She wanted him.12

Mr. Ramsay had almost done reading. One handhovered over the page as if to be in readiness to turnit the very instant he had finished it. He sat therebare-headed with the wind blowing his hair about,extraordinarily exposed to everything. He looked veryold. He looked, James thought, getting his head nowagainst the Lighthouse, now against the waste of wa-ters running away into the open, like some old stonelying on the sand; he looked as if he had becomephysically what was always at the back of both oftheir minds — that loneliness which was for both ofthem the truth about things.

He was reading very quickly, as if he were eager toget to the end. Indeed they were very close to theLighthouse now. There it loomed up, stark andstraight, glaring white and black, and one could seethe waves breaking in white splinters like smashedglass upon the rocks. One could see lines and creasesin the rocks. One could see the windows clearly; a dabof white on one of them, and a little tuft of green onthe rock. A man had come out and looked at them235

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