TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

off the Brompton Road). She opened bedroom
windows. She shut doors. (So she tried to start
the tune of Mrs. Ramsay in her head.) Arriving
late at night, with a light tap on one's bed-
room door, wrapped in an old fur coat (for the
setting of her beauty was always that—hasty,
but apt), she would enact again whatever it
might be—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella;
Mr, Carmichael snuffling and sniffing; Mr.
Bankes saying, " the vegetable salts are lost".
All this she would adroitly shape; even malici-
ously twist; and, moving over to the window,
in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, she
could see the sun rising,—half turn back, more
intimately, but still always laughing, insist that
she must, Minta must, they all must marry,
since in the whole world, whatever laurels might
be tossed to her (but Mrs. Ramsay cared not a
fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her
(probably Mrs. Ramsay had had her share of
those), and here she saddened, darkened, and
came back to her chair, there could be no dis-
puting this: an unmarried woman (she lightly
took her hand for a moment), an unmarried
woman has missed the best of life. The
house seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs.
Ramsay listening; of shaded lights and regular
breathin'g.
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