THE LIGHTHOUSE

presumably. But there was only kind Mrs.
Beckwith turning over her sketches under the
lamp. Then, being tired, her mind still rising
and falling with the sea, the taste and smell that
places have after long absence possessing her,
the candles wavering in her eyes, she had lost
herself and gone under. It was a wonderful night,
starlit; the waves sounded as they went upstairs;
the moon surprised them, enormous, pale, as they
passed the staircase window. She had slept
at once.

She set her clean canvas firmly upon the easel,
as a barrier, frail, but she hoped sufficiently sub-
stantial to ward off Mr. Ramsay and his exacting-
ness. She did her best to look, when his back
was turned, at her picture; that line there, that
mass there. But it was out of the question.
Let him be fifty feet away, let him not even
speak to you, let him not even see you, he per-
meated, he prevailed, he imposed himself. He
changed everything. She could not see the
colour; she could not see the lines; even with his
back turned to her, she could only think, But
He'll be down on me in a moment, demanding—
something she felt she could not give him. She
rejected one brush; she chose another. When
would those children come? When would they all
be off? she fidgeted. That man, she thought, her

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