TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE
curled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the
lake of one's being, a mist, a bride to meet her
lover.
What brought her to say that: " We are in the
hands of the Lord? "  she wondered.   The insin-
cerity slipping in among the truths roused her,
annoyed her.   She returned to her knitting again.
How could any Lord have made this world? she
asked.    With her mind she had always seized
the fact that there is no reason, order, justice:
but suffering, death, the poor.     There was no
treachery too base for the world to commit;  sKe
knew that.   No happiness lasted; she knew that.
She knitted with firm composure, slightly pursing
her lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffened _
and composed the lines of her face in a habit of
sternness that when her husband passed, though
he was chuckling at the thought that Hume, the
philosopher, grown enormously fat, had stuck in a
bog, he could not help noting, as he passed, the
sternness at the heart of her beauty.   It saddened
him, and her remoteness pained him, and he felt,
as he passed, that he could not protect her, and,
when he reached the hedge, he was sad.    He
could do nothing to help her.   He must stand by t
and watch her.    Indeed, the infernal truth was,
he made things worse for her.   He was irritable	
he was touchy.   He had lost his temper over the
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