TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

saying anything about it! It meant to him the
annihilation of womanhood, and dirt and disorder,
and servants leaving and beds not made at mid-
day—all the things he most abhorred. He had
a way of shuddering and spreading his fingers out
as if to cover an unsightly object, which he did
now—holding his hand in front of him. And
Minta walked on ahead, and presumably Paul
met her and she went off with Paul in the garden.
The Rayleys, thought Lily Briscoe, squeezing
her tube of green paint. She collected her im-
pressions of the Rayleys. Their lives appeared
to her in a series of scenes; one, on the staircase
at dawn. Paul had come in and gone to bed early;
Minta was late. There was Minta, wreathed,
tinted, garish on the stairs about three o'clock in
the morning. Paul came out in his pyjamas
carrying a poker in case of burglars. Minta was
eating a sandwich, standing half-way up by a
window, in the cadaverous early morning light,
and the carpet had a hole in it. But what did they
say? Lily asked herself, as if by looking she could
hear them. Something violent. Minta went on
eating her sandwich, annoyingly, while he spoke.
He spoke indignant, jealous words, abusing her,
in a mutter so as not to wake the children, the
two little boys. He was withered, drawn; she
flamboyant, careless. For things had worked
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