To THE LIGHTHOUSEfor which she felt intense gratitude; for nothingso solaced her, eased her of the perplexity of life,and miraculously raised its burdens, as this sublime power, this heavenly gift, and one would nomore disturb it, while it lasted, than break up theshaft of sunlight lying level across the floor.

That people should love like this, that Mr.Bankes should feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (sheglanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting.She wiped one brush after another upon a pieceof old rag, menially, on purpose. She tookshelter from the reverence which covered allwomen; she felt herself praised. Let him gaze;she would steal a look at her picture.

She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad,it was infinitely bad! She could have done itdifferently of course; the colour could have beenthinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; thatwas how Paunceforte would have seen it. Butthen she did not see it like that. She saw thecolour burning on a framework of steel; the lightof a butterily’s wing lying upon the arches of acathedral. Of all that only a few random marksscrawled upon the canvas remained. And itwould never be seen; never be hung even, andthere was Mr. Tansley whispering in her ear,‘ Women can’t paint, women can’t writeShe now remembered what she had been going