THE LIGHTHOUSE

space, while she modelled it with greens and
blues.

Charles Tansley used to say that, she remem-
bered, women can't paint, can't write. Coming up
behind her he had stood close beside her, a thing
she hated, as she painted here on this very spot,
" Shag tobacco ", he said, " fivepence an ounce ",
parading his poverty, his principles. (But the war
had drawn the sting of her femininity. Poor
devils, one thought, poor devils of both sexes,
getting into such messes.) He was always carrying
a book about under his arm—a purple book.
He "worked". He sat, she remembered, work-
ing in a blaze of sun. At dinner he would sit
right in the middle of the view. And then,
she reflected, there was that scene on the
beach. One must remember that. It was „ a
windy morning. They had all gone to the
beach. Mrs. Ramsay sat and wrote letters by a
rock. She wrote and wrote, " Oh," she said,
looking up at last at something floating in the
sea, " is it a lobster pot? Is it an upturned boat? "
She was so short-sighted that she could not see,
and then Charles Tansley became as nice as he
could possibly be. He began playing ducks and
drakes. They chose little flat black stones and
sent them skipping over the waves. Every now
and then Mrs. Ramsay looked up over her

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