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that he was one of William’s acquaintances before it was
possible to tell which of them he was。 It was Denham
who； having parted from Sandys at the bottom of his
staircase； was now walking to the Tube at Charing Cross；
deep in the thoughts which his talk with Sandys had suggested。
He had forgotten the meeting at Mary Datchet’s
rooms； he had forgotten Rodney； and metaphors and Elizabethan
drama； and could have sworn that he had forgotten
Katharine Hilbery； too； although that was more disputable。
His mind was scaling the highest pinnacles of
its alps； where there was only starlight and the untrodden
snow。 He cast strange eyes upon Rodney； as they encountered
each other beneath a lamppost。
“Ha！” Rodney exclaimed。
If he had been in full possession of his mind； Denham
would probably have passed on with a salutation。 But
the shock of the interruption made him stand still； and
before he knew what he was doing； he had turned and
was walking with Rodney in obedience to Rodney’s invitation
to e to his rooms and have something to drink。
Denham had no wish to drink with Rodney； but he followed
him passively enough。 Rodney was gratified by this
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Virginia Woolf
obedience。 He felt inclined to be municative with
this silent man； who possessed so obviously all the good
masculine qualities in which Katharine now seemed lamentably
deficient。
“You do well； Denham；” he began impulsively； “to have
nothing to do with young women。 I offer you my experience—
if one trusts them one invariably has cause to
repent。 Not that I have any reason at this moment；” he
added hastily； “to plain of them。 It’s a subject that
crops up now and again for no particular reason。 Miss
Datchet； I dare say； is one of the exceptions。 Do you like
Miss Datchet？”
These remarks indicated clearly enough that Rodney’s
nerves were in a state of irritation； and Denham speedily
woke to the situation of the world as it had been one
hour ago。 He had last seen Rodney walking with Katharine。
He could not help regretting the eagerness with which
his mind returned to these interests； and fretted him with
the old trivial anxieties。 He sank in his own esteem。 Reason
bade him break from Rodney； who clearly tended to
bee confidential； before he had utterly lost touch
with the problems of high philosophy。 He looked along
the road； and marked a lamppost at a distance of some
hundred yards； and decided that he would part from
Rodney when they reached this point。
“Yes； I like Mary； I don’t see how one could help liking
her；” he remarked cautiously； with his eye on the lamppost。
“Ah； Denham； you’re so different from me。 You never
give yourself away。 I watched you this evening with
Katharine Hilbery。 My instinct is to trust the person I’m
talking to。 That’s why I’m always being taken in； I suppose。”
Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of
Rodney’s； but； as a matter of fact； he was hardly conscious
of Rodney and his revelations； and was only concerned
to make him mention Katharine again before they
reached the lamppost。
“Who’s taken you in now？” he asked。 “Katharine
Hilbery？”
Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of
rhythm； as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony；
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Night and Day
upon the smooth stone balustrade of the Embankment。
“Katharine Hilbery；” he repeated； with a curious little
chuckle。 “No； Denham； I have no illusions about that
young woman。 I think I made that plain to her tonight。
But don’t run away with a false impression；” he continued
eagerly； turning and linking his arm through Denham’s；
as though to prevent him from escaping； and； thus pelled；
Denham passed the monitory lamppost； to which；
in passing； he breathed an excuse； for how could he break
away when Rodney’s arm was actually linked in his？ “You
must not think that I have any bitterness against her—
far from it。 It’s not altogether her fault； poor girl。 She
lives； you know； one of those odious； selfcentered lives—
at least； I think them odious for a woman—feeding her
wits upon everything； having control of everything； getting
far too much her own way at home—spoilt； in a
sense； feeling that every one is at her feet； and so not
realizing how she hurts—that is； how rudely she behaves
to people who haven’t all her advantages。 Still； to do her
justice； she’s no fool；” he added； as if to warn Denham
not to take any liberties。 “She has taste。 She has sense。
She can understand you when you talk to her。 But she’s a
woman； and there’s an end of it；” he added； with another
little chuckle； and dropped Denham’s arm。
“And did you tell her all this tonight？” Denham asked。
“Oh dear me； no。 I should never think of telling Katharine
the truth about herself。 That wouldn’t do at all。 One has
to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with
Katharine。
“Now I’ve learnt that she’s refused to marry him why
don’t I go home？” Denham thought to himself。 But he
went on walking beside Rodney； and for a time they did
not speak； though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune
out of an opera by Mozart。 A feeling of contempt and
liking bine very naturally in the mind of one to whom
another has just spoken unpremeditatedly； revealing rather
more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal。
Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney
was； and at the same time Rodney began to think about
Denham。
“You’re a slave like me； I suppose？” he asked。
“A solicitor； yes。”
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Virginia Woolf
“I sometimes wonder why we don’t chuck it。 Why don’t
you emigrate； Denham？ I should have thought that would
suit you。”
“I’ve a family。”
“I’m often on the point of going myself。 And then I
know I couldn’t live without this”—and he waved his
hand towards the City of London； which wore； at this
moment； the appearance of a town cut out of grayblue
cardboard； and pasted flat against the sky； which was of
a deeper blue。
“There are one or two people I’m fond of； and there’s a
little good music； and a few pictures； now and then—
just enough to keep one dangling about here。 Ah； but I
couldn’t live with savages！ Are you fond of books？ Music？
Pictures？ D’you care at all for first editions？ I’ve got a
few nice things up here； things I pick up cheap； for I
can’t afford to give what they ask。”
They had reached a small court of high eighteenth
century houses； in one of which Rodney had his rooms。
They climbed a very steep staircase； through whose
uncurtained windows the moonlight fell； illuminating the
banisters with their twisted pillars； and the piles of plates
set on the windowsills； and jars halffull of milk。 Rodney’s
rooms were small； but the sittingroom window looked
out into a courtyard； with its flagged pavement； and its
single tree； and across to the flat redbrick fronts of the
opposite houses； which would not have surprised Dr。
Johnson； if he had e out of his grave for a turn in the
moonlight。 Rodney lit his lamp； pulled his curtains； offered
Denham a chair； and； flinging the manuscript of his
paper on the Elizabethan use of Metaphor on to the table；
exclaimed：
“Oh dear me； what a waste of time！ But it’s over now；
and so we may think no more about it。”
He then busied himself very dexterously in lighting a
fire； producing glasses； whisky； a cake； and cups and saucers。
He put on a faded crimson dressinggown； and a
pair of red slippers； and advanced to Denham with a tumbler
in one hand and a wellburnished book in the other。
“The Baskerville Congreve；” said Rodney； offering it to
his guest。 “I couldn’t read him in a cheap edition。”
When he was seen thus among his books and his valu
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Night and Day
ables； amiably anxious to make his visitor fortable；
and moving about with something of the dexterity and
grace of a Persian cat； Denham relaxed his critical attitude；
and felt more at home with Rodney than he would
have done with many men better known to him。 Rodney