TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

it would make all the difference. He went to the
heart of things. He cared about fishermen and
their wages. He could not sleep for thinking of
them. It was altogether different when he spoke;
one did not feel then, pray heaven you don't see
how little I care, because one did care. Then,
realising that it was because she admired him
so much that she was waiting for him to speak,
she felt as if somebody had been praising her
husband to her and their marriage, and she
glowed all over without realising that it was she
herself who had praised him. She looked at him
thinking to find this shown in his face; he would
be looking magnificent. , . . But not in the least!
He was screwing his face up, he was scowling
and frowning, and flushing with anger. What
on earth was it about? she wondered. What could
be the matter? Only that poor old Augustus had
asked for another plate of soup—that was all. It
was unthinkable, it was detestable (so he signalled
to her across the table) that Augustus should be
beginning his soup over again. He loathed people
eating when he had finished. She saw his anger
fly like a pack of hounds into his eyes, his brow,
and she knew that in a moment something violent
would explode, and then—but thank goodness!
she saw him clutch himself and clap a brake on the
wheel, and the whole of his body seemed to emit
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