TO THE LIGHTHOUSEperhaps too in order to clear himself in his own mindfrom the imputation of having dried and shrunk —for Ramsay lived in a welter of children, whereasBankes was childless and a widower — he was anxiousthat Lily Briscoe should not disparage Ramsay (agreat man in his own way) yet should understand howthings stood between them. Begun long years ago,their friendship had petered out on a Westmorlandroad, where the hen spread her wings before herchicks; after which Ramsay had married, and theirpaths lying different ways, there had been, certainlyfor no one’s fault, some tendency, when they met, torepeat.Yes. That was it. He finished. He turned from theview. And, turning to walk back the other way, upthe drive, Mr. Bankes was alive to things which wouldnot have struck him had not those sandhills revealedto him the body of his friendship lying with the redon its lips laid up in peat — for instance, Cam, thelittle girl, Ramsay’s youngest daughter. She was pick-ing Sweet Alice on the bank. She was wild and fierce.She would not ‘give a flower to the gentleman’ as thenursemaid told her. No! no! no! she would not! Sheclenched her fist. She stamped. And Mr. Bankes feltaged and saddened and somehow put into the wrongby her about his friendship. He must have dried andshrunk.The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a wonderhow they managed to contrive it all. Eight children!To feed eight children on philosophy! Here was an-other of them, Jasper this time, strolling past, to havea shot at a bird, he said, nonchalantly, swinging Lily’shand like a pump-handle as he passed, which caused28
