Suddenly Mr Ramsay raised his head as he passed and looked straight ather, with his distraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating, as if hesaw you, for one second, for the first time, for ever; and she pretended todrink out of her empty coffee cup so as to escape him—to escape his demandon her, to put aside a moment longer that imperious need. And heshook his head at her, and strode on ("Alone" she heard him say,"Perished" she heard him say) and like everything else this strangemorning the words became symbols, wrote themselves all over the grey-green walls. If only she could put them together, she felt, write them outin some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things. Old MrCarmichael came padding softly in, fetched his coffee, took his cup andmade off to sit in the sun. The extraordinary unreality was frightening;but it was also exciting. Going to the Lighthouse. But what does one sendto the Lighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-green light on the wall opposite.

　　The empty places. Such were some of the parts, but how bringthem together? she asked. As if any interruption would break the frailshape she was building on the table she turned her back to the windowlest Mr Ramsay should see her. She must escape somewhere, be alonesomewhere. Suddenly she remembered. When she had sat there last tenyears ago there had been a little sprig or leaf pattern on the table-cloth,which she had looked at in a moment of revelation. There had been aproblem about a foreground of a picture. Move the tree to the middle,she had said. She had never finished that picture. She would paint thatpicture now. It had been knocking about in her mind all these years.

　　Where were her paints, she wondered? Her paints, yes. She had left themin the hall last night. She would start at once. She got up quickly, beforeMr Ramsay turned.

　　She fetched herself a chair. She pitched her easel with her precise oldmaidishmovements on the edge of the lawn, not too close to Mr Carmichael,but close enough for his protection. Yes, it must have been preciselyhere that she had stood ten years ago. There was the wall; thehedge; the tree. The question was of some relation between those masses.

　　She had borne it in her mind all these years. It seemed as if the solutionhad come to her: she knew now what she wanted to do.

　　But with Mr Ramsay bearing down on her, she could do nothing.

　　Every time he approached—he was walking up and down the terrace—ruin approached, chaos approached. She could not paint. Shestooped, she turned; she took up this rag; she squeezed that tube. But allshe did was to ward him off a moment. He made it impossible for her todo anything. For if she gave him the least chance, if he saw her disengageda moment, looking his way a moment, he would be on her, saying,as he had said last night, "You find us much changed." Last night he hadgot up and stopped before her, and said that. Dumb and staring thoughthey had all sat, the six children whom they used to call after the Kingsand Queens of England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, the Ruthless—she felt how they raged under it. Kind old Mrs Beckwith saidsomething sensible. But it was a house full of unrelated passions—shehad felt that all the evening. And on top of this chaos Mr Ramsay got up,pressed her hand, and said: "You will find us much changed" and noneof them had moved or had spoken; but had sat there as if they wereforced to let him say it. Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at thelamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief round her finger. Then he remindedthem that they were going to the Lighthouse tomorrow. Theymust be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half-past seven. Then, with hishand on the door, he stop............