TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

agreed, Raphael had treated divinely. She was
not cynical. Quite the contrary. Thanks to his
scientific mind he understood—a proof of dis-
interested intelligence which had pleased her and
comforted her enormously. One could talk of
painting then seriously to a man. Indeed, his
friendship had been one of the pleasures of her
life. She loved William Bankes.

They went to Hampton Court and he always

left her, like the perfect gentleman he was, plenty

of time to wash her hands, while he strolled by

the river. That was typical of their relationship.

Many things were left unsaid. Then they strolled

through the courtyards, and admired, summer

after summer, the proportions and the flowers,

and he would tell her things, about perspective,

about architecture, as they walked, and he would

stop to look at a tree, or the view over the lake,

and admire a child (it was his great grief—he had

no daughter) in the vague aloof way that was

natural to a man who spent so much time in

laboratories that the world when he came out

seemed to" dazzle him, so that he walked slowly,

lifted his hand to screen his eyes and paused, with

his head thrown back, merely to breathe the air.

Then he would tell her how his housekeeper was

on her holiday; he must buy a new carpet for the

staircase. Perhaps she would go with him to buy

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