T0 THE LIGHTHOUSEits confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats,and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought,This will celebrate the occasion—a curious senserising in her, at once freakish and tender, ofcelebrating a festival, as if two emotions werecalled up in her, one profound——for what could bemore serious than the love of man for woman,what more commanding, more impressive, bearingin its bosom the seeds of death; at the same timethese lovers, these people entering into illusionglittering eyed, must be danced round withmockery, decorated with garlands.

‘ It is a triumph," said Mr. Bankes, laying hisknife down for a moment. He had eaten attentively. It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectly cooked. How did she manage these thingsin the depths of the country? he asked her. Shewas a wonderful woman. All his love, all hisreverence had returned; and she knew it.

‘ It is a French recipe of my grandmother’s,"said Mrs. Ramsay, speaking with a ring of greatpleasure in her voice. Of course it was French.What passes for cookery in England is anabomination (they agreed). It is putting cabbagesin water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather.It is cutting off the delicious skins of vegetables. "

In which," said Mr. Bankes, “ all the virtue ofthe vegetable is contained.” And the waste, said1 56

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