TO THE LIGHTHOUSEyou ". But no. He did not like to see her look sosad, he said. Only wool gathering, she protested,flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,as if they did not know whether to go on or goback. She had been reading fairy tales to james,she said. No, they could not share that; theycould not say that.

They had reached the gap between the twoclumps of red—hot pokers, and there was theLighthouse again, but she would not let herselflook at it. Had she known that he was lookingat her, she thought, she would not have let herselfsit there, thinking. She disliked anything thatreminded her that she had been seen sittingthinking. So she looked over her shoulder, at thetown. The lights were rippling and running asif they were drops of silver water held firm in awind. And all the poverty, all the suffering hadturned to that, Mrs. Ramsay thought. The lightsof the town and of the harbour and of the boatsseemed like a phantom net floating there to marksomething which had sunk. Well, if he could notshare her thoughts, Mr. Ramsay said to himself,he would be off, then, on his own. He wanted togo on thinking, telling himself the story howHume was stuck in a bog; he wanted to laugh.But first it was nonsense to be anxious aboutAndrew. When he was Andrew’s age he used to108