He had been to Amsterdam, Mr Bankes was saying as he strolled acrossthe lawn with Lily Briscoe. He had seen the Rembrandts. He had been toMadrid. Unfortunately, it was Good Friday and the Prado was shut. Hehad been to Rome. Had Miss Briscoe never been to Rome? Oh, sheshould—It would be a wonderful experience for her—the Sistine Chapel;Michael Angelo; and Padua, with its Giottos. His wife had been in badhealth for many years, so that their sight-seeing had been on a modestscale.

　　She had been to Brussels; she had been to Paris but only for a flyingvisit to see an aunt who was ill. She had been to Dresden; there weremasses of pictures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected, perhapsit was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontentedwith one's own work. Mr Bankes thought one could carry thatpoint of view too far. We can't all be Titians and we can't all be Darwins,he said; at the same time he doubted whether you could have your Darwinand your Titian if it weren't for humble people like ourselves. Lilywould have liked to pay him a compliment; you're not humble, MrBankes, she would have liked to have said. But he did not want compliments(most men do, she thought), and she was a little ashamed of herimpulse and said nothing while he remarked that perhaps what he wassaying did not apply to pictures. Anyhow, said Lily, tossing off her littleinsincerity, she would always go on painting, because it interested her.

　　Yes, said Mr Bankes, he was sure she would, and, as they reached theend of the lawn he was asking her whether she had difficulty in findingsubjects in London when they turned and saw the Ramsays. So that ismarriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing aball. That is what Mrs Ramsay tried to tell me the other nig............