TO THE LIGHTHOUSE
on the edge of the cliff and began to sing some
song about
Damn your eyes, damn your eyes.
They all had to join in and sing the chorus, and
shout out together:
Damn your eyes, damn your eyes,
but it would be fatal to let the tide come in and
cover up all the good hunting-grounds before
they got on to the beach.
““ Fatal,” Paul agreed, springing up, and as
they went slithering down, he kept quoting the
guide-book about * these islands being justly
celebrated for their park-like prospects and the
extent and variety of their marine curiosities’.
But it would not do altogether, this shouting and
damning your eyes, Andrew felt, picking his way
down the cliff, this clapping him on the back,
and calling him “old fellow ” and all that; it
would not altogether do. It was the worst of
taking women on walks. Once on the beach they
separated, he going out on to the Pope’s Nose,
taking his shoes off, and rolling his socks in them
and letting that couple look after themselves;
Nancy waded out to her own rocks and searched
her own pools and let that couple look after
themselves. She crouched low down and touched
the smooth rubber-like sea anemones, who were
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