Chapter 7

           "Mrs.Ramsay!"Lilycried,"Mrs.Ramsay!"Butnothinghappened.Thepainincreased.Thatanguishcouldreduceonetosuchapitchofimbecility,shethought!Anyhowtheoldmanhadnotheardher.Heremainedbenignant,calm—ifonechosetothinkit,sublime.Heavenbepraised,noonehadheardhercrythatignominiouscry,stoppain,stop!Shehadnotobviouslytakenleaveofhersenses.Noonehadseenherstepoffherstripofboardintothewatersofannihilation.Sheremainedaskimpyoldmaid,holdingapaint-brush.

           Andnowslowlythepainofthewant,andthebitteranger(tobecalledback,justasshethoughtshewouldneverfeelsorrowforMrs.Ramsayagain.Hadshemissedheramongthecoffeecupsatbreakfast?notintheleast)lessened;andoftheiranguishleft,asantidote,areliefthatwasbalminitself,andalso,butmoremysteriously,asenseofsomeonethere,ofMrs.Ramsay,relievedforamomentoftheweightthattheworldhadputonher,stayinglightlybyhersideandthen(forthiswasMrs.Ramsayinallherbeauty)raisingtoherforeheadawreathofwhiteflowerswithwhichshewent.Lilysqueezedhertubesagain.Sheattackedthatproblemofthehedge.Itwasstrangehowclearlyshesawher,steppingwithherusualquicknessacrossfieldsamongwhosefolds,purplishandsoft,amongwhoseflowers,hyacinthorlilies,shevanished.Itwassometrickofthepainter’seye.