TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at
Minta, shyly, yet curiously, so that Mrs. Ramsay
looked from one to the other and said, speaking
to Prue in her own mind, You will be as happy as
she is one of these days. You will be much
happier, she added, because you are my daughter,
she meant; her own daughter must be happier
than other people's daughters. But dinner was
over. It was time to go. They were only play-
ing with things on their plates. She would wait
until they had done laughing at some story her
husband was telling. He was having a joke with
Minta about a bet. Then she would get up.

She liked Charles Tansley, she thought, sud-
denly; she liked his laugh. She liked him for
being so angry with Paul and Minta. She liked
his awkwardness. There was a lot in that young
man after all. And Lily, she thought, putting
her napkin beside her plate, she always has some
joke of her own. One need never bother about
Lily. She waited. She tucked her napkin under
the edge of her plate. Well, were they done now?
No, That story had led to another story. Her
husband was in great spirits to-night, and wishing,
she supposed, to make it all right with old
Augustus after that scene about the soup, had
drawn him in—they were telling stories about
some one they had both known at college. She
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