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sometimes think—” She paused； she did not know how
to express what she meant。
“It came over me in the Tube the other day；” she resumed；
with a smile； “what is it that makes these people
go one way rather than the other？ It’s not love； it’s not
reason； I think it must be some idea。 Perhaps； Mary； our
affections are the shadow of an idea。 Perhaps there isn’t
any such thing as affection in itself… 。” She spoke half
mockingly； asking her question； which she scarcely troubled
to frame； not of Mary； or of any one in particular。
But the words seemed to Mary Datchet shallow； supercilious；
coldblooded； and cynical all in one。 All her natural
instincts were roused in revolt against them。
“I’m the opposite way of thinking； you see；” she said。
“Yes； I know you are；” Katharine replied； looking at her
as if now she were about； perhaps； to explain something
very important。
Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good
faith that lay behind Katharine’s words。
“I think affection is the only reality；” she said。
“Yes；” said Katharine； almost sadly。 She understood that
Mary was thinking of Ralph； and she felt it impossible to
press her to reveal more of this exalted condition； she
could only respect the fact that； in some few cases； life
arranged itself thus satisfactorily and pass on。 She rose
to her feet accordingly。 But Mary exclaimed； with unmistakable
earnestness； that she must not go； that they met
so seldom； that she wanted to talk to her so much… 。
Katharine was surprised at the earnestness with which
she spoke。 It seemed to her that there could be no indiscretion
in mentioning Ralph by name。
Seating herself “for ten minutes；” she said： “By the
way； Mr。 Denham told me he was going to give up the Bar
and live in the country。 Has he gone？ He was beginning
to tell me about it； when we were interrupted。”
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Night and Day
“He thinks of it；” said Mary briefly。 The color at once
came to her face。
“It would be a very good plan；” said Katharine in her
decided way。
“You think so？”
“Yes； because he would do something worth while； he
would write a book。 My father always says that he’s the
most remarkable of the young men who write for him。”
Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between
the bars with a poker。 Katharine’s mention of Ralph
had roused within her an almost irresistible desire to
explain to her the true state of the case between herself
and Ralph。 She knew； from the tone of her voice； that in
speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary’s secrets；
or to insinuate any of her own。 Moreover； she liked
Katharine； she trusted her； she felt a respect for her。 The
first step of confidence was paratively simple； but a
further confidence had revealed itself； as Katharine spoke；
which was not so simple； and yet it impressed itself upon
her as a necessity； she must tell Katharine what it was
clear that she had no conception of—she must tell
Katharine that Ralph was in love with her。
“I don’t know what he means to do；” she said hurriedly；
seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction。
“I’ve not seen him since Christmas。”
Katharine reflected that this was odd； perhaps； after
all； she had misunderstood the position。 She was in the
habit of assuming； however； that she was rather unobservant
of the finer shades of feeling； and she noted her
present failure as another proof that she was a practical；
abstractminded person； better fitted to deal with figures
than with the feelings of men and women。 Anyhow；
William Rodney would say so。
“And now—” she said。
“Oh； please stay！” Mary exclaimed； putting out her hand
to stop her。 Directly Katharine moved she felt； inarticulately
and violently； that she could not bear to let her go。
If Katharine went； her only chance of speaking was lost；
her only chance of saying something tremendously important
was lost。 Half a dozen words were sufficient to
wake Katharine’s attention； and put flight and further
silence beyond her power。 But although the words came
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Virginia Woolf
to her lips； her throat closed upon them and drove them
back。 After all； she considered； why should she speak？
Because it is right； her instinct told her； right to expose
oneself without reservations to other human beings。 She
flinched from the thought。 It asked too much of one already
stripped bare。 Something she must keep of her own。
But if she did keep something of her own？ Immediately
she figured an immured life； continuing for an immense
period； the same feelings living for ever； neither dwindling
nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall。
The imagination of this loneliness frightened her； and
yet to speak—to lose her loneliness； for it had already
bee dear to her； was beyond her power。
Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine’s skirt；
and； fingering a line of fur； she bent her head as if to
examine it。
“I like this fur；” she said； “I like your clothes。 And you
mustn’t think that I’m going to marry Ralph；” she continued；
in the same tone； “because he doesn’t care for me at
all。 He cares for some one else。” Her head remained bent；
and her hand still rested upon the skirt。
“It’s a shabby old dress；” said Katharine； and the only
sign that Mary’s words had reached her was that she spoke
with a little jerk。
“You don’t mind my telling you that？” said Mary； raising
herself。
“No； no；” said Katharine； “but you’re mistaken； aren’t
you？” She was； in truth； horribly unfortable； dismayed；
indeed； disillusioned。 She disliked the turn things had
taken quite intensely。 The indecency of it afflicted her。
The suffering implied by the tone appalled her。 She looked
at Mary furtively； with eyes that were full of apprehension。
But if she had hoped to find that these words had
been spoken without understanding of their meaning；
she was at once disappointed。 Mary lay back in her chair；
frowning slightly； and looking； Katharine thought； as if
she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few
minutes。
“There are some things； don’t you think； that one can’t
be mistaken about？” Mary said； quietly and almost coldly。
“That is what puzzles me about this question of being in
love。 I’ve always prided myself upon being reasonable；”
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Night and Day
she added。 “I didn’t think I could have felt this—I mean
if the other person didn’t。 I was foolish。 I let myself
pretend。” Here she paused。 “For； you see； Katharine；” she
proceeded； rousing herself and speaking with greater
energy； “I am in love。 There’s no doubt about that… 。 I’m
tremendously in love … with Ralph。” The little forward
shake of her head； which shook a lock of hair； together
with her brighter color； gave her an appearance at once
proud and defiant。
Katharine thought to herself； “That’s how it feels then。”
She hesitated； with a feeling that it was not for her to
speak； and then said； in a low tone； “You’ve got that。”
“Yes；” said Mary； “I’ve got that。 One wouldn’t not be in
love… 。 But I didn’t mean to talk about that； I only
wanted you to know。 There’s another thing I want to tell
you …” She paused。 “I haven’t any authority from Ralph
to say it； but I’m sure of this—he’s in love with you。”
Katharine looked at her again； as if her first glance
must have been deluded； for； surely； there must be some
outward sign that Mary was talking in an excited； or bewildered；
or fantastic manner。 No； she still frowned； as if
she sought her way through the clauses of a difficult
argument； but she still looked more like one who reasons
than one who feels。
“That proves that you’re mistaken—utterly mistaken；”
said Katharine； speaking reasonably； too。 She had no need
to verify the mistake by a glance at her own recollections；
when the fact was so clearly stamped upon her
mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one
of critical hostility。 She did not give the matter another
though