To THE L1GHTHOUsEwas roused as usual by something incongruous.There was a brown spot in the middle of thebay. It was a boat. Yes, she realised that aftera second. But whose boat? Mr. Ramsay’s boat,she replied. Mr. Ramsay; the man who hadmarched past her, with his hand raised, aloof, atthe head of a procession, in his beautiful boots,asking her for sympathy,_which she had refused.The boat was now half way across the bay.

So fine was the morning except for a streak ofwind here and there that the sea and sky lookedall one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in thesky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.A steamer far out at sea had drawn in the air agreat scroll of smoke which stayed there curvingand circling decoratively, as if the air were a finegauze which held things and kept them softly inits mesh, only gently swaying them this way andthat. And as happens sometimes when theweather is very fine, the cliffs looked as if theywere conscious of the ships, and the ships lookedas if they were conscious of the cliffs, as if theysignalled to each other some secret message of.their own. For sometimes quite close to theshore, the Lighthouse looked this morning inthe haze an enormous distance away.

‘ Where are they now? " Lily thought,looking out to sea. Where was he, that very old280

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