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the impulse towards definite action； laid firmly upon
the table beside her an envelope which she had been
grasping all this time in plete forgetfulness。 The address
was uppermost； and a moment later she saw William’s
eye rest upon it as he rose to fulfil some duty with a
plate。 His expression instantly changed。 He did what he
was on the point of doing； and then looked at Katharine
with a look which revealed enough of his confusion to
show her that he was not entirely represented by his appearance。
In a minute or two he proved himself at a loss
with Mrs。 Vermont Bankes； and Mrs。 Hilbery； aware of the
silence with her usual quickness； suggested that； perhaps；
it was now time that Mrs。 Bankes should be shown
“our things。”
Katharine accordingly rose； and led the way to the little
inner room with the pictures and the books。 Mrs。 Bankes
and Rodney followed her。
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Virginia Woolf
She turned on the lights； and began directly in her low；
pleasant voice： “This table is my grandfather’s writing
table。 Most of the later poems were written at it。 And
this is his pen—the last pen he ever used。” She took it in
her hand and paused for the right number of seconds。
“Here；” she continued； “is the original manuscript of the
‘Ode to Winter。’ The early manuscripts are far less corrected
than the later ones； as you will see directly… 。
Oh； do take it yourself；” she added； as Mrs。 Bankes asked；
in an awestruck tone of voice； for that privilege； and
began a preliminary unbuttoning of her white kid gloves。
“You are wonderfully like your grandfather； Miss Hilbery；”
the American lady observed； gazing from Katharine to
the portrait； “especially about the eyes。 e； now； I
expect she writes poetry herself； doesn’t she？” she asked
in a jocular tone； turning to William。 “Quite one’s ideal of
a poet； is it not； Mr。 Rodney？ I cannot tell you what a
privilege I feel it to be standing just here with the poet’s
granddaughter。 You must know we think a great deal of
your grandfather in America； Miss Hilbery。 We have societies
for reading him aloud。 What！ His very own slip
pers！” Laying aside the manuscript； she hastily grasped
the old shoes； and remained for a moment dumb in contemplation
of them。
While Katharine went on steadily with her duties as
showwoman； Rodney examined intently a row of little
drawings which he knew by heart already。 His disordered
state of mind made it necessary for him to take advantage
of these little respites； as if he had been out in a
high wind and must straighten his dress in the first shelter
he reached。 His calm was only superficial； as he knew
too well； it did not exist much below the surface of tie；
waistcoat； and white slip。
On getting out of bed that morning he had fully made
up his mind to ignore what had been said the night before；
he had been convinced； by the sight of Denham；
that his love for Katharine was passionate； and when he
addressed her early that morning on the telephone； he
had meant his cheerful but authoritative tones to convey
to her the fact that； after a night of madness； they were
as indissolubly engaged as ever。 But when he reached his
office his torments began。 He found a letter from Cassandra
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Night and Day
waiting for him。 She had read his play； and had taken the
very first opportunity to write and tell him what she
thought of it。 She knew； she wrote； that her praise meant
absolutely nothing； but still； she had sat up all night；
she thought this； that； and the other； she was full of
enthusiasm most elaborately scratched out in places； but
enough was written plain to gratify William’s vanity exceedingly。
She was quite intelligent enough to say the
right things； or； even more charmingly； to hint at them。
In other ways； too； it was a very charming letter。 She
told him about her music； and about a Suffrage meeting
to which Henry had taken her； and she asserted； half
seriously； that she had learnt the Greek alphabet； and
found it “fascinating。” The word was underlined。 Had she
laughed when she drew that line？ Was she ever serious？
Didn’t the letter show the most engaging pound of
enthusiasm and spirit and whimsicality； all tapering into
a flame of girlish freakishness； which flitted； for the rest
of the morning； as a willo’thewisp； across Rodney’s
landscape。 He could not resist beginning an answer to
her there and then。 He found it particularly delightful to
shape a style which should express the bowing and curtsying；
advancing and retreating； which are characteristic
of one of the many million partnerships of men and
women。 Katharine never trod that particular measure； he
could not help reflecting； Katharine—Cassandra；
Cassandra—Katharine—they alternated in his consciousness
all day long。 It was all very well to dress oneself
carefully； pose one’s face； and start off punctually at
halfpast four to a teaparty in Cheyne Walk； but Heaven
only knew what would e of it all； and when Katharine；
after sitting silent with her usual immobility； wantonly
drew from her pocket and slapped down on the table
beneath his eyes a letter addressed to Cassandra herself；
his posure deserted him。 What did she mean by her
behavior？
He looked up sharply from his row of little pictures。
Katharine was disposing of the American lady in far too
arbitrary a fashion。 Surely the victim herself must see
how foolish her enthusiasms appeared in the eyes of the
poet’s granddaughter。 Katharine never made any attempt
to spare people’s feelings； he reflected； and； being him
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Virginia Woolf
self very sensitive to all shades of fort and disfort；
he cut short the auctioneer’s catalog； which Katharine
was reeling off more and more absentmindedly； and took
Mrs。 Vermont Bankes； with a queer sense of fellowship in
suffering； under his own protection。
But within a few minutes the American lady had pleted
her inspection； and inclining her head in a little
nod of reverential farewell to the poet and his shoes； she
was escorted downstairs by Rodney。 Katharine stayed by
herself in the little room。 The ceremony of ancestorworship
had been more than usually oppressive to her。 Moreover；
the room was being crowded beyond the bounds
of order。 Only that morning a heavily insured proofsheet
had reached them from a collector in Australia； which
recorded a change of the poet’s mind about a very famous
phrase； and； therefore； had claims to the honor of
glazing and framing。 But was there room for it？ Must it
be hung on the staircase； or should some other relic give
place to do it honor？ Feeling unable to decide the question；
Katharine glanced at the portrait of her grandfather；
as if to ask his opinion。 The artist who had painted
it was now out of fashion； and by dint of showing it to
visitors； Katharine had almost ceased to see anything
but a glow of faintly pleasing pink and brown tints； enclosed
within a circular scroll of gilt laurelleaves。 The
young man who was her grandfather looked vaguely over
her head。 The sensual lips were slightly parted； and gave
the face an expression of beholding something lovely or
miraculous vanishing or just rising upon the rim of the
distance。 The expression repeated itself curiously upon
Katharine’s face as she gazed up into his。 They were the
same age； or very nearly so。 She wondered what he was
looking for； were there waves beating upon a shore for
him； too； she wondered； and heroes riding through the
leafhung forests？ For perhaps the first time in her life
she thought of him as a man； young； unhappy； tempestuous；
full of desires and faults； for the first time she realized
him for herself； and not from her mother’s memory。
He might have been her brother； she thought。 It seemed
to her that they were akin； with the mysterious kinship
of blood which makes it seem possible to interpret the
sights which the eyes of the dead behold so intently； or
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Night and Day
even to believe that they look with us upon our present
joys and sorrows。 He wo