Wasn’t it late? she asked. They hadn’t come homeyet. He flicked his watch carelessly open. But it wasonly just past seven. He held his watch open for a mo-ment, deciding that he would tell her what he hadfelt on the terrace. To begin with, it was not reasonableto be so nervous. Andrew could look after himself.Then, he wanted to tell her that when he was walk-ing on the terrace just now — here he became uncom-fortable, as if he were breaking into that solitude, thataloofness, that remoteness of hers. . . But she pressedhim. What had he wanted to tell her, she asked, think-ing it was about going to the Lighthouse; and that hewas sorry he had said ‘Damn you’. But no. He did notlike to see her look so sad, he said. Only wool-gather-ing, she protested, flushing a little. They both felt un-comfortable, as if they did not know whether to go onor go back. She had been reading fairy tales to James,she said. No, they could not share that; they could notsay that.