THE LIGHTHOUSE

cut off from other people, and able only to go
on watching, asking, wondering. The house, the
place, the morning, all seemed strangers to her.
She had no attachment here, she felt, no relations
with it, anything might happen, and whatever did
happen, a step outside, a voice calling (" It's not
in the cupboard; it's on the landing," some one
cried), was a question, as if the link that usually
bound things together had been cut, and they
floated up here, down there, off, anyhow. How
aimless it was, how chaotic, how unreal it
was, she thought, looking at her empty coffee
cup. Mrs. Ramsay dead; Andrew killed; Prue
dead too—repeat it as she might, it roused no
feeling in her, .And we all get together in a
house like this on a morning like this, she
said, looking out of the window—it was a
beautiful still day.

Suddenly Mr. Ramsay raised his head as he
passed and looked straight at her, with his
distraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating,
as if he saw you, for one second, for the first time,
for ever; and she pretended to drink out of her
empty coffee cup so as to escape him—to escape
his demand on her, to put aside a moment longer
that imperious need. And he shook his head at
her, and strode on (" Alone " she heard him say,
" Perished " she heard him say) and like every-

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