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late Mrs。 Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen；
to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nieen；
when her mother died； and the charge of the family rested
upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter。 She kept a
fine flock of yellow chickens； sketched a little； certain
rosetrees in the garden were mitted specially to her
care； and what with the care of the house； the care of the
chickens； and the care of the poor； she scarcely knew
what it was to have an idle minute。 An extreme rectitude
of mind； rather than any gift； gave her weight in the
family。 When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph
Denham to stay with them； she added； out of deference
to Elizabeth’s character； that he was very nice； though
rather queer； and had been overworking himself in London。
No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was
in love with her； but there could be no doubt either that
not a word of this would be spoken by either of them；
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unless； indeed； some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable。
Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether
Ralph intended to e； but two or three days before
Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph； asking her
to take a room for him in the village。 This was followed
by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his
meals with them； but quiet； essential for his work； made
it necessary to sleep out。
Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth； and
inspecting the roses； when the letter arrived。
“But that’s absurd；” said Elizabeth decidedly； when the
plan was explained to her。 “There are five spare rooms；
even when the boys are here。 Besides； he wouldn’t get a
room in the village。 And he oughtn’t to work if he’s overworked。”
“But perhaps he doesn’t want to see so much of us；”
Mary thought to herself； although outwardly she assented；
and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what
was； of course； her desire。 They were cutting roses at the
time； and laying them； head by head； in a shallow basket。
“If Ralph were here； he’d find this very dull；” Mary
thought； with a little shiver of irritation； which led her
to place her rose the wrong way in the basket。 Meanwhile；
they had e to the end of the path； and while
Elizabeth straightened some flowers； and made them stand
upright within their fence of string； Mary looked at her
father； who was pacing up and down； with his hand behind
his back and his head bowed in meditation。 Obeying
an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt
this methodical marching； Mary stepped on to the
grass walk and put her hand on his arm。
“A flower for your buttonhole； father；” she said； presenting
a rose。
“Eh； dear？” said Mr。 Datchet； taking the flower； and
holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight；
without pausing in his walk。
“Where does this fellow e from？ One of Elizabeth’s
roses—I hope you asked her leave。 Elizabeth doesn’t like having
her roses picked without her leave； and quite right； too。”
He had a habit； Mary remarked； and she had never noticed
it so clearly before； of letting his sentences tail
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Virginia Woolf
away in a continuous murmur； whereupon he passed into
a state of abstraction； presumed by his children to indicate
some train of thought too profound for utterance。
“What？” said Mary； interrupting； for the first time in
her life； perhaps； when the murmur ceased。 He made no
reply。 She knew very well that he wished to be left alone；
but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to
some sleepwalker； whom she thought it right gradually
to awaken。 She could think of nothing to rouse him with
except：
“The garden’s looking very nice； father。”
“Yes； yes； yes；” said Mr。 Datchet； running his words together
in the same abstracted manner； and sinking his
head yet lower upon his breast。 And suddenly； as they
turned their steps to retrace their way； he jerked out：
“The traffic’s very much increased； you know。 More rolling
stock needed already。 Forty trucks went down yesterday
by the 12。15—counted them myself。 They’ve taken
off the 9。3； and given us an 8。30 instead—suits the business
men； you know。 You came by the old 3。10 yesterday；
I suppose？”
She said “Yes；” as he seemed to wish for a reply； and
then he looked at his watch； and made off down the path
towards the house； holding the rose at the same angle in
front of him。 Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the
house； where the chickens lived； so that Mary found herself
alone； holding Ralph’s letter in her hand。 She was
uneasy。 She had put off the season for thinking things
out very successfully； and now that Ralph was actually
ing； the next day； she could only wonder how her
family would impress him。 She thought it likely that her
father would discuss the train service with him； Elizabeth
would be bright and sensible； and always leaving
the room to give messages to the servants。 Her brothers
had already said that they would give him a day’s shooting。
She was content to leave the problem of Ralph’s
relations to the young men obscure； trusting that they
would find some mon ground of masculine agreement。
But what would he think of her？ Would he see that she
was different from the rest of the family？ She devised a
plan for taking him to her sittingroom； and artfully leading
the talk towards the English poets； who now occu
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Night and Day
pied prominent places in her little bookcase。 Moreover；
she might give him to understand； privately； that she；
too； thought her family a queer one—queer； yes； but not
dull。 That was the rock past which she was bent on steering
him。 And she thought how she would draw his attention
to Edward’s passion for Jorrocks； and the enthusiasm
which led Christopher to collect moths and butterflies
though he was now twentytwo。 Perhaps Elizabeth’s
sketching； if the fruits were invisible； might lend color to
the general effect which she wished to produce of a family；
eccentric and limited； perhaps； but not dull。 Edward；
she perceived； was rolling the lawn； for the sake of exercise；
and the sight of him； with pink cheeks； bright little
brown eyes； and a general resemblance to a clumsy young
carthorse in its winter coat of dusty brown hair； made
Mary violently ashamed of her ambitious scheming。 She
loved him precisely as he was； she loved them all； and as
she walked by his side； up and down； and down and up；
her strong moral sense administered a sound drubbing to
the vain and romantic element aroused in her by the mere
thought of Ralph。 She felt quite certain that； for good or
for bad； she was very like the rest of her family。
Sitting in the corner of a thirdclass railway carriage；
on the afternoon of the following day； Ralph made several
inquiries of a mercial traveler in the opposite
corner。 They centered round a village called Lampsher；
not three miles； he understood； from Lincoln； was there a
big house in Lampsher； he asked； inhabited by a gentleman
of the name of Otway？
The traveler knew nothing； but rolled the name of Otway
on his tongue； reflectively； and the sound of it gratified
Ralph amazingly。 It gave him an excuse to take a letter
from his pocket in order to verify the address。
“Stogdon House； Lampsher； Lincoln；” he read out。
“You’ll find somebody to direct you at Lincoln；” said
the man； and Ralph had to confess that he was not bound
there this very evening。
“I’ve got to walk over from Disham；” he said； and in the
heart of him could not help marveling at the pleasure
which he derived from making a bagman in a train believe
what he himself did not believe。 For the letter； though
signed by Katharine’s father； contained no invitation or
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Virginia Woolf
warrant for thinking that Katharine herself was there；
the only fact it disclosed was that for a fortnight this
address would be Mr。 Hilbery’s address。 But when he looked
out of the window； it was of her he thought； she； too；
had seen these gray