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a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses；
in its beauty； all that our wildest dreams bring us
hints of。
Katharine came into the room a moment later。 He stood
watching her e towards him； and thought her more
beautiful and strange than his dream of her； for the real
Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd
behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes； and
the monest sentence would be flashed on by this
immortal light。 And she overflowed the edges of the dream；
he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast
snowy owl； she wore a ruby on her finger。
“My mother wants me to tell you；” she said； “that she
hopes you have begun your poem。 She says every one
ought to write poetry… 。 All my relations write poetry；”
she went on。 “I can’t bear to think of it sometimes—
because； of course； it’s none of it any good。 But then one
needn’t read it—”
“You don’t encourage me to write a poem；” said Ralph。
“But you’re not a poet； too； are you？” she inquired；
turning upon him with a laugh。
“Should I tell you if I were？”
“Yes。 Because I think you speak the truth；” she said；
searching him for proof of this apparently； with eyes now
almost impersonally direct。 It would be easy； Ralph
thought； to worship one so far removed； and yet of so
straight a nature； easy to submit recklessly to her； without
thought of future pain。
“Are you a poet？” she demanded。 He felt that her question
had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it； as
if she sought an answer to a question that she did not
ask。
“No。 I haven’t written any poetry for years；” he replied。
“But all the same； I don’t agree with you。 I think it’s the
only thing worth doing。”
“Why do you say that？” she asked； almost with impatience；
tapping her spoon two or three times against the
side of her cup。
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Virginia Woolf
“Why？” Ralph laid hands on the first words that came
to mind。 “Because； I suppose； it keeps an ideal alive which
might die otherwise。”
A curious change came over her face； as if the flame of
her mind were subdued； and she looked at him ironically
and with the expression which he had called sad before；
for want of a better name for it。
“I don’t know that there’s much sense in having ideals；”
she said。
“But you have them；” he replied energetically。 “Why do we
call them ideals？ It’s a stupid word。 Dreams； I mean—”
She followed his words with parted lips； as though to
answer eagerly when he had done； but as he said； “Dreams；
I mean；” the door of the drawingroom swung open； and
so remained for a perceptible instant。 They both held
themselves silent； her lips still parted。
Far off； they heard the rustle of skirts。 Then the owner
of the skirts appeared in the doorway； which she almost
filled； nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller
lady who acpanied her。
“My aunts！” Katharine murmured； under her breath。 Her
tone had a hint of tragedy in it； but no less； Ralph thought；
than the situation required。 She addressed the larger lady
as Aunt Millicent； the smaller was Aunt Celia； Mrs。 Milvain；
who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to
his wife。 Both ladies； but Mrs。 Cosham （Aunt Millicent） in
particular； had that look of heightened； smoothed；
incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies
paying calls in London about five o’clock in the afternoon。
Portraits by Romney； seen through glass； have something
of their pink； mellow look； their blooming softness；
as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon
sun。 Mrs。 Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs；
chains； and swinging draperies that it was impossible to
detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown
and black which filled the armchair。 Mrs。 Milvain was a
much slighter figure； but the same doubt as to the precise
lines of her contour filled Ralph； as he regarded them；
with dismal foreboding。 What remark of his would ever
reach these fabulous and fantastic characters？—for there
was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings
and noddings of Mrs。 Cosham； as if her equipment in
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Night and Day
cluded a large wire spring。 Her voice had a highpitched；
cooing note； which prolonged words and cut them short
until the English language seemed no longer fit for mon
purposes。 In a moment of nervousness； so Ralph
thought； Katharine had turned on innumerable electric
lights。 But Mrs。 Cosham had gained impetus （perhaps her
swaying movements had that end in view） for sustained
speech； and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and
elaborately。
“I e from Woking； Mr。 Popham。 You may well ask
me； why Woking？ and to that I answer； for perhaps the
hundredth time； because of the sunsets。 We went there
for the sunsets； but that was fiveandtwenty years ago。
Where are the sunsets now？ Alas！ There is no sunset now
nearer than the South Coast。” Her rich and romantic notes
were acpanied by a wave of a long white hand； which；
when waved； gave off a flash of diamonds； rubies； and
emeralds。 Ralph wondered whether she more resembled
an elephant； with a jeweled headdress； or a superb cockatoo；
balanced insecurely upon its perch； and pecking capriciously
at a lump of sugar。
“Where are the sunsets now？” she repeated。 “Do you
find sunsets now； Mr。 Popham？”
“I live at Highgate；” he replied。
“At Highgate？ Yes； Highgate has its charms； your Uncle
John lived at Highgate；” she jerked in the direction of
Katharine。 She sank her head upon her breast； as if for a
moment’s meditation； which past； she looked up and observed：
“I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate。
I can recollect walking with your mother； Katharine；
through lanes blossoming with wild hawthorn。 But where
is the hawthorn now？ You remember that exquisite description
in De Quincey； Mr。 Popham？—but I forget； you；
in your generation； with all your activity and enlightenment；
at which I can only marvel”—here she displayed
both her beautiful white hands—”do not read De Quincey。
You have your Belloc； your Chesterton； your Bernard
Shaw—why should you read De Quincey？”
“But I do read De Quincey；” Ralph protested； “more
than Belloc and Chesterton； anyhow。”
“Indeed！” exclaimed Mrs。 Cosham； with a gesture of
surprise and relief mingled。 “You are； then； a ‘rara avis’ in
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Virginia Woolf
your generation。 I am delighted to meet anyone who reads
De Quincey。”
Here she hollowed her hand into a screen； and； leaning
towards Katharine； inquired； in a very audible whisper；
“Does your friend write？”
“Mr。 Denham；” said Katharine； with more than her usual
clearness and firmness； “writes for the Review。 He is a
lawyer。”
“The cleanshaven lips； showing the expression of the
mouth！ I recognize them at once。 I always feel at home
with lawyers； Mr。 Denham—”
“They used to e about so much in the old days；”
Mrs。 Milvain interposed； the frail； silvery notes of her
voice falling with the sweet tone of an old bell。
“You say you live at Highgate；” she continued。 “I wonder
whether you happen to know if there is an old house
called Tempest Lodge still in existence—an old white
house in a garden？”
Ralph shook his head； and she sighed。
“Ah； no； it must have been pulled down by this time；
with all the other old houses。 There were such pretty
lanes in those days。 That was how your uncle met your
Aunt Emily； you know；” she addressed Katharine。 “They
walked home through the lanes。”
“A sprig of May in her bon；” Mrs。 Cosham ejaculated；
reminiscently。
“And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole。 And
that was how we guessed。”
Katharine laughed。 She looked at Ralph。 His eyes were
meditative； and she wondered what he found in this old
gossip to make him ponder so contentedly。 She felt； she
hardly knew why； a curious pity for him。
“Uncle John—yes； ‘poor John；’ you always called him。
Why was that？” she asked； to make them go on talki