THE LIGHTHOUSE

ingly plain. But Mr. Ramsay kept always his
eyes fixed upon it, never allowed himself to be
distracted or deluded, until his face became worn
too and ascetic and partook of this unornamented
beauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, she
recalled (standing where he had left her, holding
her brush), worries had fretted it—not so nobly.
He must have had his doubts about that table, she
supposed; whether the table was a real table;
whether it was worth the time he gave to it;
whether he was able after all to find it. He had
had doubts, she felt, or he would have asked less
of people. That was what they talked about late
at night sometimes, she suspected; and then next
day Mrs. Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew into
a rage with him over some absurd little thing.
But now he had nobody to talk to about that table,
or his boots, or his knots; and he was like a lion
seeking whom he could devour, and his face had
that touch of desperation, of exaggeration in it
which alarmed her, and made her pull her skirts
about her. And then, she recalled, there was that
sudden revivification, that sudden flare (when she
praised his Hoots), that sudden recovery of vitality
and interest in ordinary human things, which too
passed and changed (for he was always changing,
and hid nothing) into that other final phase which
was new to her and had, she owned, made herself
Q