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Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs。
But probably these extreme passions are very rare； and
the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last
stages of love； when the power to resist has been eaten
away； week by week or day by day。 Like most intelligent
people； Mary was something of an egoist； to the extent；
that is； of attaching great importance to what she felt；
and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to
make certain； from time to time； that her feelings were
creditable to her。 When Ralph left her she thought over
her state of mind； and came to the conclusion that it
would be a good thing to learn a language—say Italian
or German。 She then went to a drawer； which she had to
unlock； and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript
pages。 She read them through； looking up from her
reading every now and then and thinking very intently
for a few seconds about Ralph。 She did her best to verify
all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in
her； and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably
for them all。 Then she looked back again at her manuscript；
and decided that to write grammatical English prose
is the hardest thing in the world。 But she thought about
herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical
English prose or about Ralph Denham； and it may
therefore be disputed whether she was in love； or； if so；
to which branch of the family her passion belonged。
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Night and Day
CHAPTER XI
It’s life that matters； nothing but life—the process of
discovering； the everlasting and perpetual process；” said
Katharine； as she passed under the archway； and so into
the wide space of King’s Bench Walk； “not the discovery
itself at all。” She spoke the last words looking up at
Rodney’s windows； which were a semilucent red color； in
her honor； as she knew。 He had asked her to tea with
him。 But she was in a mood when it is almost physically
disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one’s thought； and
she walked up and down two or three times under the
trees before approaching his staircase。 She liked getting
hold of some book which neither her father or mother
had read； and keeping it to herself； and gnawing its contents
in privacy； and pondering the meaning without sharing
her thoughts with any one； or having to decide whether
the book was a good one or a bad one。 This evening she
had twisted the words of Dostoevsky to suit her mood—
a fatalistic mood—to proclaim that the process of discovery
was life； and that； presumably； the nature of one’s
goal mattered not at all。 She sat down for a moment
upon one of the seats； felt herself carried along in the
swirl of many things； decided； in her sudden way； that it
was time to heave all this thinking overboard； and rose；
leaving a fishmonger’s basket on the seat behind her。
Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon
Rodney’s door。
“Well； William；” she said； “I’m afraid I’m late。”
It was true； but he was so glad to see her that he forgot
his annoyance。 He had been occupied for over an hour in
making things ready for her； and he now had his reward
in seeing her look right and left； as she slipped her cloak
from her shoulders； with evident satisfaction； although
she said nothing。 He had seen that the fire burnt well；
jampots were on the table； tin covers shone in the fender；
and the shabby fort of the room was extreme。 He was
dressed in his old crimson dressinggown； which was faded
irregularly； and had bright new patches on it； like the
paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone。 He made
the tea； and Katharine drew off her gloves； and crossed
her legs with a gesture that was rather masculine in its
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Virginia Woolf
ease。 Nor did they talk much until they were smoking
cigarettes over the fire； having placed their teacups upon
the floor between them。
They had not met since they had exchanged letters about
their relationship。 Katharine’s answer to his protestation
had been short and sensible。 Half a sheet of notepaper
contained the whole of it； for she merely had to say that
she was not in love with him； and so could not marry
him； but their friendship would continue； she hoped；
unchanged。 She had added a postscript in which she
stated； “I like your son very much。”
So far as William was concerned； this appearance of
ease was assumed。 Three times that afternoon he had
dressed himself in a tailcoat； and three times he had
discarded it for an old dressinggown； three times he had
placed his pearl tiepin in position； and three times he
had removed it again； the little lookingglass in his room
being the witness of these changes of mind。 The question
was； which would Katharine prefer on this particular
afternoon in December？ He read her note once more； and
the postscript about the son settled the matter。 Evi
dently she admired most the poet in him； and as this； on
the whole； agreed with his own opinion； he decided to
err； if anything； on the side of shabbiness。 His demeanor
was also regulated with premeditation； he spoke little；
and only on impersonal matters； he wished her to realize
that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing
nothing remarkable； although； in fact； that was a point
about which he was not at all sure。
Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing
thoughts； and if he had been pletely master
of himself； he might； indeed； have plained that she
was a trifle absentminded。 The ease； the familiarity of
the situation alone with Rodney； among teacups and
candles； had more effect upon her than was apparent。
She asked to look at his books； and then at his pictures。
It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her
hands that she exclaimed； impulsively； if incongruously：
“My oysters！ I had a basket；” she explained； “and I’ve
left it somewhere。 Uncle Dudley dines with us tonight。
What in the world have I done with them？”
She rose and began to wander about the room。 William
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Night and Day
rose also； and stood in front of the fire； muttering； “Oysters；
oysters—your basket of oysters！” but though he
looked vaguely here and there； as if the oysters might be
on the top of the bookshelf； his eyes returned always to
Katharine。 She drew the curtain and looked out among
the scanty leaves of the plarees。
“I had them；” she calculated； “in the Strand； I sat on a
seat。 Well； never mind；” she concluded； turning back into
the room abruptly； “I dare say some old creature is enjoying
them by this time。”
“I should have thought that you never forgot anything；”
William remarked； as they settled down again。
“That’s part of the myth about me； I know；” Katharine
replied。
“And I wonder；” William proceeded； with some caution；
“what the truth about you is？ But I know this sort of
thing doesn’t interest you；” he added hastily； with a touch
of peevishness。
“No； it doesn’t interest me very much；” she replied candidly。
“What shall we talk about then？” he asked。
She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the
room。
“However we start； we end by talking about the same
thing—about poetry； I mean。 I wonder if you realize；
William； that I’ve never read even Shakespeare？ It’s rather
wonderful how I’ve kept it up all these years。”
“You’ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully； as far
as I’m concerned；” he said。
“Ten years？ So long as that？”
“And I don’t think it’s always bored you；” he added。
She looked into the fire silently。 She could not deny
that the surface of her feeling was absolutely unruffled
by anything in William’s character； on the contrary； she
felt certain that she could deal with whatever turned up。
He gave her peace； in which she could think of things
that were far removed from what they talked about。 Even
now； when he sat within a yard of her； how easily her
mind ranged hither and thither！ Suddenly a picture presented
itself before her； without any effort on her par