TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

thought it such a good name for a villain.
" Vronsky," said Mrs. Ramsay; " O, Anna
Karenina," but that did not take them very-
far; books were not in their line. No, Charles
Tansley would put them both right in a second
about books, but it was all so mixed up with,
Am I saying the right thing? Am I making a
good impression? that, after all, one knew more
about him than about Tolstoi, whereas what
Paul said was about the thing simply, not him-
self. Like all stupid people, he had a kind of
modesty too, a consideration for what you were
feeling, which, once in a way at least, she found
attractive. Now he was thinking, net about
himself or about Tolstoi, but whether she was
cold, whether she felt a draught, whether she^
would like a pear.

No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed
she had been keeping guard over the dish of
fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping that
nobody would touch it. Her eyes had been
going in and out among the curves and shadows
of the fruit, among the rich purples of the low-
land grapes, then over the horny ridge of the
shell, putting a yellow against a purple, a curved
shape against a round shape, without knowing
why she did it, or why, every time she did it, she
felt more and more serene; until, oh, what a
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