T0 THE LIGHTHOUSEhe was——l\/Ir. Ramsay—advancing towards them,swinging, careless, oblivious, remote. A bit ofa hypocrite? she repeated. Oh no—the mostsincere of men, the truest (here he was), the best;but, looking down, she thought, he is absorbedin himself; he is tyrannical, he is unjust; and keptlooking down, purposely, for only so could shekeep steady, staying with the Ramsays. Directlyone looked up and saw them, what she called‘being in love ” flooded them. They becamepart of that unreal but penetrating and excitinguniverse which is the world seen through theeyes of love. The sky stuck to them; the birdssang through them. And, what was even moreexciting, she felt, too, as she saw Mr. Ramsaybearing down and retreating, and Mrs. Ramsaysitting with ]ames in the window and the cloudmoving and the tree bending, how life, from beingmade up of little separate incidents which onelived one by one, became curled and whole likea wave which bore one up with it and threw onedown with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

Mr. Bankes expected her to answer. Andshe was about to say something criticising Mrs.Ramsay, how she was alarming, too, in herway, high-handed, or words to that eiiiect, whenMr. Bankes made it entirely unnecessary forher to speak by his rapture. For such it was

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