He was really, Lily Briscoe thought, in spite of hiseyes, but then look at his nose, look at his hands, themost uncharming human being she had ever met.Then why did she mind what he said? Womencan’t write, women can’t paint—what did thatmatter coming from him, since clearly it was nottrue to him but for some reason helpful to him, andthat was why he said it? Why did her whole beingbow, like corn under a wind, and erect itself againfrom this abasement only with a great and ratherpainful effort? She must make it once more.There’s the sprig on the tablecloth; there's mypainting; I must move the tree to the middle; thatmatters—nothing else. Could she not hold fast tothat, she asked herself, and not lose her temper, andnot argue; and if she wanted a little revenge take itby laughing at him?
‘Oh, Mr Tansley,' she said, ‘do take me to theLighthouse with you. I should so love it.'She was telling lies he could see. She was sayingwhat she did not mean to annoy him, for somereason. She was laughing at him. He was in hisold flannel trousers. He had no others. He felt veryrough and isolated and lonely. He knew that she wastrying to tease him for some reason; she didn't wantto go to the Lighthouse with him; she despised him:so did Prue Ramsay; so did they all. But he wasnot going to be made a fool of by women, so he turned
