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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEother end of the table her husband was saying[%]VW: The delete sign ends with what appears to be a marginal period but is part of the final descender. (she believed in him implicitly) about the squareroot of one thousand two hundred and fifty-three,which happened to be the number on his railwayticketVW: “ticket” is not visibly struck through but has no place in the revision..That was the number it seemed on hiswatchVW: Demarcated with line.What did it all mean? To this day she had nonotion. A square root? What was that? Hersons knew. She leant on them; on cubes andsquare roots; that was what they were talkingabout now; on Voltaire and Madame de Stael;ëon the character of Napoleon; on the Frenchsystem of land tenure; on Lord Rosebery; onCreevey's Memoirs: she let it uphold her andsustain her, this admirable fabric of the masculineintelligence, which ran up and down, crossed thisway and that, like iron girders spanning theswaying fabric, upholding the world, so that shecould trust herself to it utterly, even shut her eyes,or flicker them for a moment, as a child staringup from its pillow winks at the myriad layers ofthe leaves of a tree. Then she woke up. It wasstill being fabricated. William Bankes waspraising the Waverley novels.He read one of them every six months, he said.And why should that make Charles Tansleyangry? He rushed in (all, thought Mrs. Ramsay,because Prue will not be nice to him) and de-nounced the Waverley novels when he knew164
