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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEShe could not help laughing herself sometimes.She said, the other day, something about “wavesmountains high”. Yes, said Charles Tansley,it was a little rough. “Aren't you drenched tothe skin?” she had said. “Damp, not wetthrough,” said Mr. Tansley, pinching his sleeve,feeling his socks.But it was not that they minded, the childrensaid. It was not his face; it was not his manners.It was him—his point of view. When theytalked about something interesting, people, music,history, anything, even said it was a fine eveningso why not sit out of doors, then what they com-plained of about Charles Tansley was that untilhe had turned the whole thing round and madeit somehow reflect himself and disparage them,put them all on edge somehow with his acid wayof peeling the flesh and blood off everything, hewas not satisfied. And he would go to picturegalleries, they said, and he would ask one, didone like his tie? God knows, said Rose, onedid not.Disappearing as stealthily as stags from thedinner-table directly the meal was over, the eightsons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsaysought their bedrooms, their fastnesses in a housewhere there was no other privacy to debate any-thing, everything; Tansley's tie; the passing of18
