She folded the green shawl about her shoulders. She took his arm. Hisbeauty was so great, she said, beginning to speak of Kennedy thegardener, at once he was so awfully handsome, that she couldn't dismisshim. There was a ladder against the greenhouse, and little lumps ofputty stuck about, for they were beginning to mend the greenhouse. Yes,but as she strolled along with her husband, she felt that that particularsource of worry had been placed. She had it on the tip of her tongue tosay, as they strolled, "It'll cost fifty pounds," but instead, for her heartfailed her about money, she talked about Jasper shooting birds, and hesaid, at once, soothing her instantly, that it was natural in a boy, and hetrusted he would find better ways of amusing himself before long. Herhusband was so sensible, so just. And so she said, "Yes; all children gothrough stages," and began considering the dahlias in the big bed, andwondering what about next year's flowers, and had he heard thechildren's nickname for Charles Tansley, she asked. The atheist, theycalled him, the little atheist. "He's not a polished specimen," said MrRamsay. "Far from it," said Mrs Ramsay.

　　She supposed it was all right leaving him to his own devices, MrsRamsay said, wondering whether it was any use sending down bulbs;did they plant them? "Oh, he has his dissertation to write," said Mr Ram-say. She knew all about THAT, said Mrs Ramsay. He talked of nothingelse. It was about the influence of somebody upon something. "Well, it'sall he has to count on," said Mr Ramsay. "Pray Heaven he won't fall inlove with Prue," said Mrs Ramsay. He'd disinherit her if she marriedhim, said Mr Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers, which his wife wasconsidering, but at a spot about a foot or so above them. There was noharm in him, he added, and was just about to say that anyhow he wasthe only young man in England who admired his—when he choked itback. He would not bother her again about his books. These flowersseemed creditable, Mr Ramsay said, lowering his gaze and noticingsomething red, something brown. Yes, but then these she had put inwith her own hands, said Mrs Ramsay. The question was, whathappened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedy plant them? It was his incurablelaziness; she added, moving on. If she stood over him all daylong with a spade in her hand, he did sometimes do a stroke of work. Sothey strolled along, towards the red-hot pokers. "You're teaching yourdaughters to exaggerate," said Mr Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Camillawas far worse than she was, Mrs Ramsay remarked. "Nobody everheld up your Aunt Camilla as a model of virtue that I'm aware of," saidMr Ramsay. "She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw," said MrsRamsay. "Somebody else was that," said Mr Ramsay. Prue was going tobe far more beautiful than she was, said Mrs Ramsay. He saw no trace ofit, said Mr Ramsay. "Well, then, look tonight," said Mrs Ramsay. Theypaused. He wished Andrew could be induced to work harder. He wouldlose every chance of a scholarship if he didn't. "Oh, scholarships!" shesaid. Mr Ramsay thought her foolish for saying that, about a seriousthing, like a scholarship. He should be very proud of Andrew if he got ascholarship, he said. She would be just as proud of him if he didn't, sheanswered. They disagreed always about this, but it did not matter. Sheliked him to believe in scholarships, and he liked her to be proud ofAndrew whatever he did. Suddenly she remembered those little pathson the edge of the cliffs.

　　Wasn't it late? she asked. They hadn't come home yet. He flicked hiswatch carelessly open. But it was only just past seven. He held his watchopen for a moment, deciding that he would tell her what he had felt onthe terrace. To begin with, it was not reasonable to be so nervous.

　　Andrew could look after himself. Then, he wanted to tell her that whenhe was walking on the terrace just now—here he became uncomfortable,as if he were breaking into that solitude, that aloofness, that remotenessof hers. But she pressed him. What had he wanted to tell her, she asked,thinking it was about going to the Lighthouse; that he was sorry he hadsaid "Damn you." But no. He did not like to see her look so sad, he said.

　　Only wool gathering, she protested, flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,as if they did not know whether to go on or go back. Shehad been reading fairy tales to James, she said. No, they could not sharethat; they could not say that.

　　They had reached the gap between the two clumps of red-hot pokers,and there was the Lighthouse again, but she would not let herself look atit. Had she known that he was looking at her, she thought, she wouldnot have let herself sit there, thinking. She disliked anything that remindedher that she had been seen sitting thinking. So she looked overher shoulder, at the town. The lights were rippling and running as if theywere drops of silver water held firm in a wind. And all the poverty, allthe suffering had turned to that, Mrs Ramsay thought. The lights of thetown and of the harbour and of the boats seemed like a phantom netfloating there to mark something which had sunk. Well, if he could notshare her thoughts, Mr Ramsay said to himself, he would be off, then, onhis own. He wanted to go on thinking, telling himself the story howHume was stuck in a bog; he wanted to laugh. But first it was nonsenseto be anxious about Andrew. When he was Andrew's age he used towa............