TO THE LIGHTHOUSEoff the Brompton Road). She opened bedroomwindows. She shut doors. (So she tried to startthe tune of Mrs. Ramsay in her head.) Arrivinglate at night, with a light tap on one’s bed-room door, wrapped in an old fur coat (for thesetting of her beauty was always that—hasty,but apt), she would enact again whatever itmight be—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella;Mr. Carmichael snuffling and sniffing; Mr.Bankes saying, “the vegetable salts are lost".All this she would adroitly shape; even malici-ously twist; and, moving over to the window,in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, shecould see the sun rising,—half turn back, moreintimately, but still always laughing, insist thatshe must, Minta must, they all must marry,since in the whole world, whatever laurels mightbe tossed to her (but Mrs. Ramsay cared not afig for her painting), or triumphs won by her(probably Mrs. Ramsay had had her share ofthose), and here she saddened, darkened, andcame back to her chair, there could be no dis-puting this: an unmarried woman (she lightlytook her hand for a moment), an unmarriedwoman has missed the best of life. Thehouse seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs.Ramsay listening; of shaded lights and regularbreathing.80
