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THE LIGHTHOUSEa new carpet for the staircase. And once some-thing led him to talk about the Ramsays andhe had said how when he first saw her she hadbeen wearing a grey hat; she was not morethan nineteen or twenty. She was astonishinglybeautiful. There he stood looking down theavenue at Hampton Court, as if he could see herthere among the fountains.

She looked now at the drawing-room step.She saw, through William’s eyes, the shape of awoman, peaceful and silent, with downcast eyes.She sat musing, pondering (she was in grey thatday, Lily thought). Her eyes were bent. Shewould never lift them. Yes, thought Lily, lookingintently, I must have seen her look like that, butnot in grey; nor so still, nor so young, nor sopeaceful. The figure came readily enough. Shewas astonishingly beautiful, William said. Butbeauty was not everything. Beauty had thispenalty—it came too readily, came too com-pletely. It stilled life—froze it. One forgot thelittle agitations; the flush, the pallor, some queerdistortion, some light or shadow, which made theface unrecognisable for a moment and yet added aquality one saw for ever after. It was simpler tosmooth that all out under the cover of beauty.But what was the look she had, Lily wondered,when she clapped her deer-stalker’s hat on herS273