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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEcurled up off the floor of the mind, rose from thelake of one's being, a mist, a bride to meet herlover.What brought her to say that: “We are in thehands of the Lord?" she wondered. The insin-cerity slipping in among the truths roused her,annoyed her. She returned to her knitting again.How could any Lord have made this world? sheasked. With her reasonmindshe had always seized thefact that there is no reason, order, justice: butsuffering, death, the poor. There was notreachery too base for the world to commit; sheknew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that.She knitted with firm composure, slightly pursingher lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffenedand composed the lines of her face in a habit ofsternness that when her husband passed, thoughhe was chuckling at the thought that Hume, thephilosopher, grown enormously fat, had stuck in abog, he could not help noting, as he passed, thesternness at the heart of her beauty. It saddenedhim, and her remoteness pained him, and he felt,as he passed, that he could not protect her, and,when he reached the hedge, he was sad. Hecould do nothing to help her. He must stand byand watch her. Indeed, the infernal truth was,he made things worse for her. He was irritable—he was touchy. He had lost his temper over the102
