THE LIGHTHOUSEthem had moved or had spoken; but had sat thereas if they were forced to let him say it. Only James(certainly the Sullen) scowled at the lamp; and Camscrewed her handkerchief round her finger. Then hereminded them that they were going to the Lighthouseto-morrow. They must be ready, in the hall, on thestroke of half-past seven. Then, with his hand on thedoor, he stopped; he turned upon them. Did they notwant to go? he demanded. Had they dared say No(he had some reason for wanting it) he would haveflung himself tragically backwards into the bitterwaters of despair. Such a gift he had for gesture. Helooked like a king in exile. Doggedly James said yes.Cam stumbled more wretchedly. Yes, oh, yes, they’dboth be ready, they said. And it struck her, this wastragedy — not palls, dust, and the shroud; but chil-dren coerced, their spirits subdued. James was six-teen, Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked roundfor someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay,presumably. But there was only kind Mrs. Beckwithturning over her sketches under the lamp. Then,being tired, her mind still rising and falling with thesea, the taste and smell that places have after longabsence possessing her, the candles wavering in hereyes, she had lost herself and gone under. It was awonderful night, starlit; the waves sounded as theywent upstairs; the moon surprised them, enormous,pale, as they passed the staircase window. She hadslept at once.

She set her clean canvas firmly upon the easel, asa-barrier, frail, but she hoped sufficiently substantialto ward off Mr. Ramsay and his exactingness. Shedid her best to look, when his back was turned, at173

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