For Cam grazed the easel by an inch; she would not stop for Mr Bankesand Lily Briscoe; though Mr Bankes, who would have liked a daughterof his own, held out his hand; she would not stop for her father, whomshe grazed also by an inch; nor for her mother, who called "Cam! I wantyou a moment!" as she dashed past. She was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow,impelled by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed, whocould say? What, what? Mrs Ramsay pondered, watching her. It mightbe a vision—of a shell, of a wheelbarrow, of a fairy kingdom on the farside of the hedge; or it might be the glory of speed; no one knew. Butwhen Mrs Ramsay called "Cam!" a second time, the projectile dropped inmid career, and Cam came lagging back, pulling a leaf by the way, to hermother.

　　What was she dreaming about, Mrs Ramsay wondered, seeing her engrossed,as she stood there, with some thought of her own, so that shehad to repeat the message twice—ask Mildred if Andrew, Miss Doyle,and Mr Rayley have come back?—The words seemed to be dropped intoa well, where, if the waters were clear, they were also so extraordinarilydistorting that, even as they descended, one saw them twisting about tomake Heaven knows what pattern on the floor of the child's mind. Whatmessage would Cam give the cook? Mrs Ramsay wondered. And indeedit was only by waiting patiently, and hearing that there was an old womanin the kitchen with very red cheeks, drinking soup out of a basin,that Mrs Ramsay at last prompted that parrot-like instinct which hadpicked up Mildred's words quite accurately and could now producethem, if one waited, in a colourless singsong. Shifting from foot to foot,Cam repeated the words, "No, they haven't, and I've told Ellen to clearaway tea."Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley had not come back then. That could onlymean, Mrs Ramsay thought, one thing. She must accept him, or she mustrefuse him. This going off after luncheon for a walk, even thoughAndrew was with them—what could it mean? except that she haddecided, rightly, Mrs Ramsay thought (and she was very, very fond ofMinta), to accept that good fellow, who might not be brilliant, but then,thought Mrs Ramsay, realising that James was tugging at her, to makeher go on reading aloud the Fisherman and his Wife, she did in her ownheart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations;Charles Tansley, for instance. Anyhow it must have happened, one wayor the other, by now.

　　But she read, "Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak,and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her.

　　Her husband was still stretching himself… "But how could Minta say now that she would not have him? Not if sheagreed to spend whole afternoons trapesing about the countryalone—for Andrew would be off after his crabs—but possibly Nancywas with them. She tried to recall the sight of them standing at the halldoor after lunch. There they stood, looking at the sky, wondering aboutthe weather, and she had said, thinking partly to cover their shyness,partly to encourage them to be off (for her sympathies were with Paul),"There isn't a cloud anywhere within miles," at which she could feellittle Charles Tansley, who had followed them out, snigger. But she did iton purpose. Whether Nancy was there or not, she could not be certain,looking from one to the other in her mind's eye.

　　She read on: "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should we be King? I donot want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you won't be King, I will;go to the Flounder, for I will be King.""Come in or go out, Cam," she said, knowing that Cam was attractedonly by the word "Flounder" and that in a moment she would fidget andfight with James as usual. Cam shot off. Mrs Ramsay went on reading,relieved, for she and James shared the same tastes and were comfortabletogether.

　　"And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark grey, and the waterheaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by itand said,'Flounder, flounder, in the sea,Come, I pray thee, here to me;For my wife, good Ilsabil,Wills not as I'd have her will.'

　　'Well, what does she want then?' said the Flounder." And where werethey now? Mrs Ramsay wondered, reading and thinking, quite easily,both at the same time; for the story of the Fisherman and his Wife waslike the bass gently accompanying a tune, which now and then ran upunexpectedly into the melody. And when should she be told? If nothinghappened, she would have to speak seriously to Minta. For she could notgo trapesing about all over the country, even if Nancy were with them(she tried again, unsuccessfully, to visualize their backs going down thepath, and to count them). She was responsible to Minta's parents—theOwl and the Poker. Her nicknames for them shot into her mind as sheread. The Owl and the Poker—yes, they would be annoyed if theyheard—and they were certain to hear—that Minta, staying with theRamsays, had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. "He wore a wig in theHouse of Commons and she ably assisted him at the head of the stairs,"she repeated, fishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which, comingback from some party, she had made to amuse her husband. Dear,dear, Mrs Ramsay said to herself, how did they produce this incongruousdaughter? this tomboy Minta, with a hole in her stocking? How didshe exist in that portentous atmosphere where the maid was always removingin a dust-pan the sand that the parrot had scattered, and conversationwas almost entirely reduced to the exploits—interesting perhaps,but limited after all—of that bird? Naturally, one had asked her to lunch,tea, dinner, finally to stay with them up at Finlay, which had resulted insome friction with the Owl, her mother, and more calling, and more conversation,and more sand, and really at the end of it, she had told enoughlies about parrots to last her a lifetime (so she had said to her husbandthat night, coming back from the party). However, Minta came… Yes,she came, Mrs Ramsay thought, suspecting some thorn in the tangle ofthis thought; and disengaging it found it to be this: a woman had onceaccused her of "robbing her of her daughter's affections"; something MrsDoyle had said made her remember that charge again. Wishing to dominate,wishing to interfere, making people do what she wished—that wasthe charge against her, and she thought it most unjust. How could shehelp being "like that" to look at? No one could accuse her of taking painsto impress. She was often ashamed of her own shabbiness. Nor was shedomineering, nor was she tyrannical. It was more true about hospitalsand drains and the dairy. About things like that she did feel passionately,and would, if she had the chance, have liked to take people by thescruff of their necks and make them see. No hospital on the whole island.

　　It was a disgrace. Milk delivered at your door in London positivelybrown with dirt. It should be made illegal. A model dairy and a hospitalup here—those two things she would have liked to do, herself. But how?

　　With all these children? When they were older, then perhaps she wouldhave time; when they were all at school.

　　Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older! or Cam either.

　　These two she would have liked to keep for ev............