“More’s the pity, then. When a man’s ill, you feel old enough to be his mother. Once you feel that way, everything’s all right. You go back, my dear, and give up expecting too much. You’ll find you’ve got much more than you thought.”

Elizabeth slipped down from the table.

“He may not want me. But if he does—I will go back.”

*

Elizabeth told no one of her return to London, but on the day after her arrival she went at last to see Mrs. Ramsay.

She was taken to the drawing-room; Mrs. Ramsay got up quickly, and seemed to hesitate. It was Thomas who bounded forward and made much of Elizabeth. That relieved the tension; Mrs. Ramsay came forward.

“How dear of Thomas! Isn’t he getting fat? I’m so glad you’ve come, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth took her hand.

“Mater—I beg your pardon! Mrs. Ramsay, if you can’t bear to—to speak to me—I’ll—I’ll go. I know how you must feel.” That cost her something, but it had to be said.

“My dear, I’d rather have ‘Mater,’ please. Come and sit down.”

Elizabeth was pushed to the sofa; she sank on to it and began to stroke Thomas, mechanically. Mrs. Ramsay drew her chair nearer to the fire, and waited.

It was difficult to know how to begin; Elizabeth plunged headlong.

“Mater—does—does Stephen—still want me?”

“Yes, Elizabeth.”

She looked up; Mrs. Ramsay saw how drawn were her eyes.

“That’s—true? I—I want the truth, please.”

“Oh, my darling!” Mrs. Ramsay cried, “Does he want you? If you could but see him!”

Elizabeth’s mouth twisted; she bent over the dog.

“Thanks, mater. I’m—sorry. I’m a lot—older than I was, and—I think—a little wiser. N-not very much, perhaps, but enough to see—how wrong I’ve been, and—and how foolish. So—so I thought—I’d come and—ask you —whether Stephen still—wanted me, and—and whether I ought to—to write to him.”

Mrs. Ramsay got out of her chair and came to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa.

“Yes, dear, write to him. He’s in England, at Queen’s Halt.”

“You—really think—he’ll—come?”

“Good gracious me, yes! He’ll probably exceed the speed-limit, and be taken to prison. You’ll have to go to him then. How romantic! Or isn’t one put in prison for scorching? No, I think you just have to pay a fine. What a pity!”

Elizabeth tried to laugh, only Mater’s madness made her want to cry. It sounded so familiar, and, somehow, so precious. The laugh trembled into a sob. Mrs. Ramsay took her hand.

“Yes, darling, I know. Just tell me one thing:—Do you love him?”

There was a pause; there must be no evasions of half-truths now. Elizabeth looked up.