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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Well, let them improve upon that, he thought ashe finished the chapter. He felt that he had beenarguing with somebody, and had got the better ofhim. They could not improve upon that, whateverthey might say; and his own position became moresecure. The lovers were fiddlesticks, he thought, col-lecting it all in his mind again. That’s fiddlesticks,that’s first-rate, he thought, putting one thing besideanother. But he must read it again. He could not re-member the whole shape of the thing. He had tokeep his judgement in suspense. So he returned to theother thought — if young men did not care for this,naturally they did not care for him either. One oughtnot to complain, thought Mr. Ramsay, trying to stiflehis desire to complain to his wife that young men didnot admire him. But he was determined; he would notbother her again. Here he looked at her reading. Shelooked very peaceful, reading. He liked to think thatevery one had taken themselves off and that he andshe were alone. The whole of life did not consist ingoing to bed with a woman, he thought, returning toScott and Balzac, to the English novel and the Frenchnovel. Mrs. Ramsay raised her head and like a personin a light sleep seemed to say that if he wanted herto wake she would, she really would, but otherwise,might she go on sleeping, just a little longer, just alittle longer? She was climbing up those branches, thisway and that, laying hands on one flower and thenanother.Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,she read, and so reading she was ascending, she felt,on to the top, on to the summit. How satisfying! How142