TO THE LIGHTHOUSEgaged. Mr. Bankes was dining here. She put a spellon them all, by wishing, so simply, so directly; andLily contrasted that abundance with her own pov-erty of spirit, and supposed that it was partly thatbelief (for her face was all lit up — without lookingyoung, she looked radiant) in this strange, this ter-rifying thing, which made Paul Rayley, the centreof it, all of a tremor, yet abstract, absorbed, silent.Mrs. Ramsay, Lily felt, as she talked about the skinsof vegetables, exalted that, worshipped that; held herhands over it to warm them, to protect it, and yet,having brought it all about, somehow laughed, ledher victims, Lily felt, to the altar. It came over hertoo now — the emotion, the vibration of love. Howinconspicuous she felt herself by Paul’s side! He,glowing, burning; she, aloof, satirical; he, bound foradventure; she, moored to the shore; he, launched,incautious; she solitary, left out — and, ready to im-plore a share, if it were disaster, in his disaster, shesaid shyly:

'When did Minta lose her brooch?’

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by mem-ory, tinged by dreams. He shook his head. ‘On thebeach,’ he said.

‘I’m going to find it,’ he said, ‘I’m getting up early.’This being kept secret from Minta, he lowered hisvoice, and turned his eyes to where she sat, laughing,beside Mr. Ramsay.

Lily wanted to protest violently and outrageouslyher desire to help him, envisaging how in the dawnon the beach she would be the one to pounce on thebrooch half-hidden by some stone, and thus herself,be included among the sailors and adventurers. But120
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