TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE
ashamed of her own irritability, when it seemed
as if he had shed worries and ambitions, and the
hope of sympathy and the desire for praise, had
entered some other region, was drawn on, as if
by curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether with
himself or another, at the head of that little
procession out of one's range. An extraordinary
face! The gate banged.
So they're gone, she thought, sighing with
relief and disappointment. Her sympathy seemed
to fly back in her face, like a bramble sprung.
She felt curiously divided, as if one part of her
were drawn out there—it was a still day, hazy;
the Lighthouse looked this morning at an immense
distance; the other had fixed itself doggedly,
solidly, here on the lawn. She saw her canvas
as if it had floated up and placed itself white
and uncompromising directly before her. It
seemed to rebuke her with its cold stare for
all this hurry and agitation; this folly and
waste of emotion; it drastically recalled her and
spread through her mind first a peace, as her dis-
orderly sensations (he had gone and she had been
so sorry for him and she had said nothing)
trooped off the field; and then, emptiness. She
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