She had been to Brussels; she had been to Paris,but only for a flying visit to see an aunt who was ill.She had been to Dresden; there were masses of pic-tures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected,perhaps it was better not to see pictures: they onlymade one hopelessly discontented with one's ownwork.

Mr. Bankes thought one could carry that point ofview too far. We can’t all be Titians and we can’tall be Darwins, he said; at the same time he doubtedwhether you could have your Darwin and your Titianif it weren’t for humble people like ourselves. Lilywould have liked to pay him a compliment; you’renot humble, Mr. Bankes, she would have liked to havesaid. But he did not want compliments (most men do,she thought), and she was a little ashamed of her im-pulse and said nothing while he remarked that per-haps what he was saying did not apply to pictures.Anyhow, said Lily, tossing off her little insincerity, shewould always go on painting, because it interested her.Yes, said Mr. Bankes, he was sure she would, and asthey reached the end of the lawn he was asking herwhether she had difficulty in finding subjects in Lon-don when they turned and saw the Ramsays. So thatis marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman look-ing at a girl throwing a ball. That is what Mrs. Ram-86