T0 THE LIGHTHOUSEhim divest himself of all those glories of isolationand austerity which crowned him in youth tocumber himself definitely with fluttering wingsand clucking domesticities. They gave him something—William Bankes acknowledged that; itwould have been pleasant if Cam had stuck aflower in his coat or clambered over his shoulder,as over her father’s, to look at a picture ofVesuvius in eruption; but they had also, his oldfriends could not but feel, destroyed something.What would a stranger think now? What did thisLily Briscoe think? Could one help noticing thathabits grew on him? eccentricities, weaknessesperhaps? It was astonishing that a man of hisintellect could stoop so low as he did-—but thatwas too harsh a phrase—could depend so muchas he did upon people’s praise.‘ Oh but," said Lily, " think of his work!

Whenever she " thought of his work " shealways saw clearly before her a large kitchentable. It was Andrewis doing. She asked himwhat his father’s books were about. " Subject andobject and the nature of reality ", Andrew had said.And when she said Heavens, she had no notionwhat that meant. “ Think of a kitchen table then",he told her, “ when you’re not there"

So she always saw, when she thought of Mr.Ramsay’s work, a scrubbed kitchen table. It