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small people。
“This is a copy of the first edition of the poems；” she
continued； without considering the fact that Mr。 Denham
was still occupied with the manuscript； “which contains
several poems that have not been reprinted； as well as
corrections。” She paused for a minute； and then went on；
as if these spaces had all been calculated。
“That lady in blue is my greatgrandmother； by
Millington。 Here is my uncle’s walkingstick—he was Sir
Richard Warburton； you know； and rode with Havelock to
the Relief of Lucknow。 And then； let me see—oh； that’s
the original Alardyce； 1697； the founder of the family
fortunes； with his wife。 Some one gave us this bowl the
other day because it has their crest and initials。 We think
it must have been given them to celebrate their silver
weddingday。”
Here she stopped for a moment； wondering why it was
9
Night and Day
that Mr。 Denham said nothing。 Her feeling that he was
antagonistic to her； which had lapsed while she thought
of her family possessions； returned so keenly that she
stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him。
Her mother； wishing to connect him reputably with the
great dead； had pared him with Mr。 Ruskin； and the
parison was in Katharine’s mind； and led her to be
more critical of the young man than was fair； for a young
man paying a call in a tailcoat is in a different element
altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness；
gazing immutably from behind a sheet of glass；
which was all that remained to her of Mr。 Ruskin。 He had
a singular face—a face built for swiftness and decision
rather than for massive contemplation； the forehead broad；
the nose long and formidable； the lips cleanshaven and
at once dogged and sensitive； the cheeks lean； with a
deeply running tide of red blood in them。 His eyes； expressive
now of the usual masculine impersonality and
authority； might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable
circumstances； for they were large； and of a clear；
brown color； they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and
speculate； but Katharine only looked at him to wonder
whether his face would not have e nearer the standard
of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side
whiskers。 In his spare build and thin； though healthy；
cheeks； she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul。 His
voice； she noticed； had a slight vibrating or creaking sound
in it； as he laid down the manuscript and said：
“You must be very proud of your family； Miss Hilbery。”
“Yes； I am；” Katharine answered； and she added； “Do
you think there’s anything wrong in that？”
“Wrong？ How should it be wrong？ It must be a bore；
though； showing your things to visitors；” he added reflectively。
“Not if the visitors like them。”
“Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors？” he proceeded。
“I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry；” Katharine
replied。
“No。 And that’s what I should hate。 I couldn’t bear my
grandfather to cut me out。 And； after all；” Denham went
on； glancing round him satirically； as Katharine thought；
10
Virginia Woolf
“it’s not your grandfather only。 You’re cut out all the way
round。 I suppose you e of one of the most distinguished
families in England。 There are the Warburtons
and the Mannings—and you’re related to the Otways；
aren’t you？ I read it all in some magazine；” he added。
“The Otways are my cousins；” Katharine replied。
“Well；” said Denham； in a final tone of voice； as if his
argument were proved。
“Well；” said Katharine； “I don’t see that you’ve proved
anything。”
Denham smiled； in a peculiarly provoking way。 He was
amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy
his oblivious； supercilious hostess； if he could not impress
her； though he would have preferred to impress her。
He sat silent； holding the precious little book of poems
unopened in his hands； and Katharine watched him； the
melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her
eyes as her annoyance faded。 She appeared to be considering
many things。 She had forgotten her duties。
“Well；” said Denham again； suddenly opening the little
book of poems； as though he had said all that he meant
to say or could； with propriety； say。 He turned over the
pages with great decision； as if he were judging the book
in its entirety； the printing and paper and binding； as
well as the poetry； and then； having satisfied himself of
its good or bad quality； he placed it on the writingtable；
and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which
had belonged to the soldier。
“But aren’t you proud of your family？” Katharine demanded。
“No；” said Denham。 “We’ve never done anything to be
proud of—unless you count paying one’s bills a matter
for pride。”
“That sounds rather dull；” Katharine remarked。
“You would think us horribly dull；” Denham agreed。
“Yes； I might find you dull； but I don’t think I should
find you ridiculous；” Katharine added； as if Denham had
actually brought that charge against her family。
“No—because we’re not in the least ridiculous。 We’re a
respectable middleclass family； living at Highgate。”
“We don’t live at Highgate； but we’re middle class too；
I suppose。”
11
Night and Day
Denham merely smiled； and replacing the malacca cane
on the rack； he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath。
“That belonged to Clive； so we say；” said Katharine；
taking up her duties as hostess again automatically。
“Is it a lie？” Denham inquired。
“It’s a family tradition。 I don’t know that we can prove
it。”
“You see； we don’t have traditions in our family；” said
Denham。
“You sound very dull；” Katharine remarked； for the second
time。
“Merely middle class；” Denham replied。
“You pay your bills； and you speak the truth。 I don’t see
why you should despise us。”
Mr。 Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the
Hilberys said belonged to Clive。
“I shouldn’t like to be you； that’s all I said；” he replied；
as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he
could。
“No； but one never would like to be any one else。”
“I should。 I should like to be lots of other people。”
“Then why not us？” Katharine asked。
Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather’s
armchair； drawing her greatuncle’s malacca cane
smoothly through her fingers； while her background was
made up equally of lustrous blueandwhite paint； and
crimson books with gilt lines on them。 The vitality and
posure of her attitude； as of a brightplumed bird
poised easily before further flights； roused him to show
her the limitations of her lot。 So soon； so easily； would
he be forgotten。
“You’ll never know anything at first hand；” he began；
almost savagely。 “It’s all been done for you。 You’ll never
know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for
them； or reading books for the first time； or making discoveries。”
“Go on；” Katharine observed； as he paused； suddenly
doubtful； when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these
facts； whether there was any truth in them。
“Of course； I don’t know how you spend your time；” he
continued； a little stiffly； “but I suppose you have to
show people round。 You are writing a life of your grand
12
Virginia Woolf
father； aren’t you？ And this kind of thing”—he nodded
towards the other room； where they could hear bursts of
cultivated laughter—”must take up a lot of time。”
She looked at him expectantly； as if between them they
were decorating a small figure of herself； and she saw
him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash。
“You’ve got it very nearly right；” she said； “but I only
help my mother。 I don’t write myself。”
“Do you do anything yourself？” he demanded。
“What do you mean？” she asked。 “I don’t leave the
house at ten and e back at six。”
“I don’t mean that。”
Mr。 Denham had recovered his selfcontrol； he spoke
with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxiou