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You have yours too？”
“You’re with me in mine。 You’re the thing I make up；
you see。”
“Oh； I see；” she sighed。 “That’s why it’s so impossible。”
She turned upon him almost fiercely。 “You must try to
stop it；” she said。
“I won’t；” he replied roughly； “because I—” He stopped。
He realized that the moment had e to impart that
news of the utmost importance which he had tried to
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Night and Day
impart to Mary Datchet； to Rodney upon the Embankment；
to the drunken tramp upon the seat。 How should
he offer it to Katharine？ He looked quickly at her。 He saw
that she was only half attentive to him； only a section of
her was exposed to him。 The sight roused in him such
desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse
to rise and leave the house。 Her hand lay loosely curled
upon the table。 He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to
make sure of her existence and of his own。 “Because I
love you； Katharine；” he said。
Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement
was absent from his voice； and she had merely to shake
her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn
away in shame at his own impotence。 He thought that
she had detected his wish to leave her。 She had discerned
the break in his resolution； the blankness in the heart of
his vision。 It was true that he had been happier out in
the street； thinking of her； than now that he was in the
same room with her。 He looked at her with a guilty expression
on his face。 But her look expressed neither disappointment
nor reproach。 Her pose was easy； and she
seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by
the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table。
Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts
now occupied her。
“You don’t believe me？” he said。 His tone was humble；
and made her smile at him。
“As far as I understand you—but what should you advise
me to do with this ring？” she asked； holding it out。
“I should advise you to let me keep it for you；” he
replied； in the same tone of halfhumorous gravity。
“After what you’ve said； I can hardly trust you—unless
you’ll unsay what you’ve said？”
“Very well。 I’m not in love with you。”
“But I think you are in love with me… 。 As I am with
you；” she added casually enough。 “At least；” she said
slipping her ring back to its old position； “what other
word describes the state we’re in？”
She looked at him gravely and inquiringly； as if in search
of help。
“It’s when I’m with you that I doubt it； not when I’m
alone；” he stated。
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Virginia Woolf
“So I thought；” she replied。
In order to explain to her his state of mind； Ralph recounted
his experience with the photograph； the letter；
and the flower picked at Kew。 She listened very seriously。
“And then you went raving about the streets；” she
mused。 “Well； it’s bad enough。 But my state is worse than
yours； because it hasn’t anything to do with facts。 It’s an
hallucination； pure and simple—an intoxication… 。 One
can be in love with pure reason？” she hazarded。 “Because
if you’re in love with a vision； I believe that that’s
what I’m in love with。”
This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory
to Ralph； but after the astonishing variations
of his own sentiments during the past halfhour he
could not accuse her of fanciful exaggeration。
“Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough；” he
said almost bitterly。 The music； which had ceased； had
now begun again； and the melody of Mozart seemed to
express the easy and exquisite love of the two upstairs。
“Cassandra never doubted for a moment。 But we—” she
glanced at him as if to ascertain his position； “we see
each other only now and then—”
“Like lights in a storm—”
“In the midst of a hurricane；” she concluded； as the
window shook beneath the pressure of the wind。 They
listened to the sound in silence。
Here the door opened with considerable hesitation； and
Mrs。 Hilbery’s head appeared； at first with an air of caution；
but having made sure that she had admitted herself
to the diningroom and not to some more unusual region；
she came pletely inside and seemed in no way
taken aback by the sight she saw。 She seemed； as usual；
bound on some quest of her own which was interrupted
pleasantly but strangely by running into one of those
queer； unnecessary ceremonies that other people thought
fit to indulge in。
“Please don’t let me interrupt you； Mr。—” she was at a
loss； as usual； for the name； and Katharine thought that
she did not recognize him。 “I hope you’ve found something
nice to read；” she added； pointing to the book upon
the table。 “Byron—ah； Byron。 I’ve known people who
knew Lord Byron；” she said。
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Night and Day
Katharine； who had risen in some confusion； could not
help smiling at the thought that her mother found it
perfectly natural and desirable that her daughter should
be reading Byron in the diningroom late at night alone
with a strange young man。 She blessed a disposition that
was so convenient； and felt tenderly towards her mother
and her mother’s eccentricities。 But Ralph observed that
although Mrs。 Hilbery held the book so close to her eyes
she was not reading a word。
“My dear mother； why aren’t you in bed？” Katharine
exclaimed； changing astonishingly in the space of a minute
to her usual condition of authoritative good sense。 “Why
are you wandering about？”
“I’m sure I should like your poetry better than I like
Lord Byron’s；” said Mrs。 Hilbery； addressing Ralph Denham。
“Mr。 Denham doesn’t write poetry； he has written articles
for father； for the Review；” Katharine said； as if
prompting her memory。
“Oh dear！ How dull！” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed； with a
sudden laugh that rather puzzled her daughter。
Ralph found that she had turned upon him a gaze that
was at once very vague and very perating。
“But I’m sure you read poetry at night。 I always judge
by the expression of the eyes；” Mrs。 Hilbery continued。
（“The windows of the soul；” she added parenthetically。）
“I don’t know much about the law；” she went on； “though
many of my relations were lawyers。 Some of them looked
very handsome； too； in their wigs。 But I think I do know
a little about poetry；” she added。 “And all the things that
aren’t written down； but—but—” She waved her hand；
as if to indicate the wealth of unwritten poetry all about
them。 “The night and the stars； the dawn ing up； the
barges swimming past； the sun setting… 。 Ah dear；” she
sighed； “well； the sunset is very lovely too。 I sometimes
think that poetry isn’t so much what we write as what we
feel； Mr。 Denham。”
During this speech of her mother’s Katharine had turned
away； and Ralph felt that Mrs。 Hilbery was talking to him
apart； with a desire to ascertain something about him
which she veiled purposely by the vagueness of her words。
He felt curiously encouraged and heartened by the beam
in her eye rather than by her actual words。 From the dis
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Virginia Woolf
tance of her age and sex she seemed to be waving to
him； hailing him as a ship sinking beneath the horizon
might wave its flag of greeting to another setting out
upon the same voyage。 He bent his head； saying nothing；
but with a curious certainty that she had read an
answer to her inquiry that satisfied her。 At any rate； she
rambled off into a description of the Law Courts which
turned to a denunciation of English justice； which； according
to her； imprisoned poor men who couldn’t pay
their debts。 “Tell me； shall we ever do without it all？” she
asked； but at this point Katharine gently insisted that
her mother should go to bed。 Looking back from halfway
up the staircase； Katharine seemed to see Denham’s eyes
watching her steadily and intently with an expression
that she had guessed in them when he stood looking at
the windows across the road。
CHAPTER XXXI
The tray which brought Katharine’s cup of tea the