TO THE LIGHTHOUSElooking out of the train window, that he mustlook now, for he will never see that town, orthat mule-cart, or that woman at work in thefields, again. The lawn was the world; they wereup here together, on this exalted station, shethought, looking at old Mr. Carmichael, whoseemed (though they had not said a word all thistime) to share her thoughts. And she wouldnever see him again perhaps. He was growingold. Also, she remembered, smiling at the slipperthat dangled from his foot, he was growingfamous. People said that his poetry was "sobeautiful." They went and published things hehad written forty years ago. There was a famousman now called Carmichael, she smiled, thinkinghow many shapes one person might wear, how hewas that in the newspapers, but here the sameas he had always been. He looked the samegreyer, rather. Yes, he looked the same, butsomebody had said, she recalled, that when hehad heard of Andrew Ramsay’s death (he waskilled in a second by a shell; he should have beena great mathematician) Mr. Carmichael had “lostall interest in life.” What did it mean—that?she wondered. Had he marched through Tra-falgar Square grasping a big stick? Had heturned pages over and over, without reading them,sitting in his room in St. John’s Wood alone?298
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