Suddenly the window at which she was looking waswhitened by some light stuff behind it. At last thensomebody had come into the drawing-room; somebodywas sitting in the chair. For Heaven’s sake, she prayed,let them sit still there and not come floundering outto talk to her. Mercifully, whoever it was stayed stillinside; had settled by some stroke of luck so as tothrow an odd-shaped triangular shadow over the step.It altered the composition of the picture a little. It wasinteresting. It might be useful. Her mood was comingback to her. One must keep on looking without for asecond relaxing the intensity of emotion, the determin-ation not to be put off, not to be bamboozled. Onemust hold the scene — so — in a vice and let nothingcome in and spoil it. One wanted, she thought, dippingher brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinaryexperience, to feel simply that’s a chair, that’s a table,and yet at the same time, It’s a miracle, it’s an ecstasy.The problem might be solved after all. Ah, but whathad happened? Some wave of white went over thewindow pane. The air must have stirred some flouncein the room. Her heart leapt at her and seized herand tortured her.
‘Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs. Ramsay!' she cried, feeling theold horror come back — to want and want and notto have. Could she inflict that still? And then, quietly,as if she refrained, that too became part of ordinaryexperience, was on a level with the chair, with thetable. Mrs. Ramsay — it was part of her perfect good-ness to Lily — sat there quite simply, in the chair,234
