This ray passed level with Mr. Bankes’s ray straightto Mrs. Ramsay sitting reading there with James ather knee. But now while she still looked, Mr. Bankeshad done. He had put on his spectacles. He had steppedback. He had raised his hand. He had slightlynarrowed his clear blue eyes, when Lily, rousing her-self, saw what he was at, and winced like a dog whosees a hand raised to strike it. She would have snatchedher picture off the easel, but she said to herself,One must. She braced herself to stand the awful trialof someone looking at her picture. One must, shesaid, one must. And if it must be seen, Mr. Bankeswas less alarming than another. But that any othereyes should see the residue of her thirty-three years,the deposit of each day’s living, mixed with some-thing more secret than she had ever spoken or shownin the course of all those days, was an agony. At thesame time it was immensely exciting.

Nothing could be cooler and quieter. Taking outa penknife, Mr. Bankes tapped the canvas with thebone handle. What did she wish to indicate by thetriangular purple shape, ‘just there?’ he asked.