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look at it; for the sight gave her such keen pleasure.

But she stopped herself. He never looked at things.

If he did all he would say would be, Poor little world,with one of his sighs.

At that moment he said ‘Very fine,' to please her,and pretended to admire the flowers. But she knewquite well that he did not admire them, or even

realize that they were there. It was only to pleaseher. . . . Ah, but was that not Lily Briscoe strollingalong with William Bankes? She focused hershort-sighted eyes upon the backs of a retreating

couple. Yes, indeed it was. Did that not mean

that they would marry? Yes, it must! What an

admirable idea! They must marry!13

He had been to Amsterdam, Mr Bankes was sayingas he strolled across the lawn with Lily Briscoe. Hehad seen the Rembrandts. He had been to Madrid.Unfortunately, it was Good Friday and the Pradowas shut. He had been to Rome. Had Miss Briscoenever been to Rome? Oh, she should—— Itwould be a wonderful experience for her—the SistineChapel; Michael Angelo; and Padua, with its Giottos.His wife had been in bad health for many years, sothat their sightseeing had been on a modest scale.

She had been to Brussels; she had been to Paris,but only for a flying visit to see an aunt who was ill.She had been to Dresden; there were masses of pic-

tures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe re-flected, perhaps it was better not to see pictures:they only made one hopelessly discontented with