‘Such expeditions,' said Mr Ramsay, scraping theground with his toe, ‘are very painful.' Still Lilysaid nothing. (She is a stock, she is a stone, he saidto himself.) 'They are very exhausting,’ he said,looking, with a sickly look that nauseated her (hewas acting, she felt, this great man was dramatizinghimself), at his beautiful hands. It was horrible, itwas indecent. Would they never come, she asked,for she could not sustain this enormous weight ofsorrow, support these heavy draperies of grief (hehad assumed a pose of extreme decrepitude; he eventottered a little as he stood there) a moment longer.

Still she could say nothing; the whole horizonseemed swept bare of objects to talk about; couldonly feel, amazedly, as Mr Ramsay stood there, howhis gaze seemed to fall dolefully over the sunny grassand discolour it, and cast over the rubicund, drowsy,entirely contented figure of Mr Carmichael, readinga French novel on a deck-chair, a veil of crape, as ifsuch an existence, flaunting its prosperity in a worldof woe, were enough to provoke the most dismalthoughts of all. Look at him, he seemed to be say-ing, look at me; and indeed, all the time he wasfeeling, Think of me, think of me. Ah, could thatbulk only be wafted alongside of them, Lily wished;had she only pitched her easel a yard or two closer