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the direction which led to Rodney’s rooms。 He knocked
loudly upon his door； but no one answered。 He rang the
bell。 It took him some time to accept the fact that Rodney
was out。 When he could no longer pretend that the sound
of the wind in the old building was the sound of some
one rising from his chair； he ran downstairs again； as if
his goal had been altered and only just revealed to him。
He walked in the direction of Chelsea。
But physical fatigue； for he had not dined and had
tramped both far and fast； made him sit for a moment
upon a seat on the Embankment。 One of the regular occupants
of those seats； an elderly man who had drunk
himself； probably； out of work and lodging； drifted up；
begged a match； and sat down beside him。 It was a windy
night； he said； times were hard； some long story of bad
luck and injustice followed； told so often that the man
seemed to be talking to himself； or； perhaps； the neglect
of his audience had long made any attempt to catch their
attention seem scarcely worth while。 When he began to
speak Ralph had a wild desire to talk to him； to question
him； to make him understand。 He did； in fact； interrupt
him at one point； but it was useless。 The ancient story of
failure； illluck； undeserved disaster； went down the wind；
disconnected syllables flying past Ralph’s ears with a queer
alternation of loudness and faintness as if； at certain
moments； the man’s memory of his wrongs revived and
then flagged； dying down at last into a grumble of resignation；
which seemed to represent a final lapse into the
accustomed despair。 The unhappy voice afflicted Ralph；
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Virginia Woolf
but it also angered him。 And when the elderly man refused
to listen and mumbled on； an odd image came to
his mind of a lighthouse besieged by the flying bodies of
lost birds； who were dashed senseless； by the gale； against
the glass。 He had a strange sensation that he was both
lighthouse and bird； he was steadfast and brilliant； and
at the same time he was whirled； with all other things；
senseless against the glass。 He got up； left his tribute of
silver； and pressed on； with the wind against him。 The
image of the lighthouse and the storm full of birds persisted；
taking the place of more definite thoughts； as he
walked past the Houses of Parliament and down Grosvenor
Road； by the side of the river。 In his state of physical
fatigue； details merged themselves in the vaster prospect；
of which the flying gloom and the intermittent lights
of lampposts and private houses were the outward token；
but he never lost his sense of walking in the direction
of Katharine’s house。 He took it for granted that
something would then happen； and； as he walked on； his
mind became more and more full of pleasure and expectancy。
Within a certain radius of her house the streets
came under the influence of her presence。 Each house
had an individuality known to Ralph； because of the tremendous
individuality of the house in which she lived。
For some yards before reaching the Hilberys’ door he
walked in a trance of pleasure； but when he reached it；
and pushed the gate of the little garden open； he hesitated。
He did not know what to do next。 There was no
hurry； however； for the outside of the house held pleasure
enough to last him some time longer。 He crossed the
road； and leant against the balustrade of the Embankment；
fixing his eyes upon the house。
Lights burnt in the three long windows of the drawing
room。 The space of the room behind became； in Ralph’s
vision； the center of the dark； flying wilderness of the
world； the justification for the welter of confusion surrounding
it； the steady light which cast its beams； like
those of a lighthouse； with searching posure over the
trackless waste。 In this little sanctuary were gathered
together several different people； but their identity was
dissolved in a general glory of something that might；
perhaps； be called civilization； at any rate； all dryness；
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Night and Day
all safety； all that stood up above the surge and preserved
a consciousness of its own； was centered in the
drawingroom of the Hilberys。 Its purpose was beneficent；
and yet so far above his level as to have something
austere about it； a light that cast itself out and yet kept
itself aloof。 Then he began； in his mind； to distinguish
different individuals within； consciously refusing as yet
to attack the figure of Katharine。 His thoughts lingered
over Mrs。 Hilbery and Cassandra； and then he turned to
Rodney and Mr。 Hilbery。 Physically； he saw them bathed
in that steady flow of yellow light which filled the long
oblongs of the windows； in their movements they were
beautiful； and in their speech he figured a reserve of
meaning； unspoken； but understood。 At length； after all
this halfconscious selection and arrangement； he allowed
himself to approach the figure of Katharine herself； and
instantly the scene was flooded with excitement。 He did
not see her in the body； he seemed curiously to see her
as a shape of light； the light itself； he seemed； simplified
and exhausted as he was； to be like one of those lost
birds fascinated by the lighthouse and held to the glass
by the splendor of the blaze。
These thoughts drove him to tramp a beat up and down
the pavement before the Hilberys’ gate。 He did not trouble
himself to make any plans for the future。 Something of
an unknown kind would decide both the ing year and
the ing hour。 Now and again； in his vigil； he sought
the light in the long windows； or glanced at the ray which
gilded a few leaves and a few blades of grass in the little
garden。 For a long time the light burnt without changing。
He had just reached the limit of his beat and was
turning； when the front door opened； and the aspect of
the house was entirely changed。 A black figure came down
the little pathway and paused at the gate。 Denham understood
instantly that it was Rodney。 Without hesitation；
and conscious only of a great friendliness for any
one ing from that lighted room； he walked straight
up to him and stopped him。 In the flurry of the wind
Rodney was taken aback； and for the moment tried to
press on； muttering something； as if he suspected a demand
upon his charity。
“Goodness； Denham； what are you doing here？” he ex
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claimed； recognizing him。
Ralph mumbled something about being on his way home。
They walked on together； though Rodney walked quick
enough to make it plain that he had no wish for pany。
He was very unhappy。 That afternoon Cassandra had
repulsed him； he had tried to explain to her the difficulties
of the situation； and to suggest the nature of his
feelings for her without saying anything definite or anything
offensive to her。 But he had lost his head； under
the goad of Katharine’s ridicule he had said too much；
and Cassandra； superb in her dignity and severity； had
refused to hear another word； and threatened an immediate
return to her home。 His agitation； after an evening
spent between the two women； was extreme。 Moreover；
he could not help suspecting that Ralph was wandering
near the Hilberys’ house； at this hour； for reasons connected
with Katharine。 There was probably some understanding
between them—not that anything of the kind
mattered to him now。 He was convinced that he had never
cared for any one save Cassandra； and Katharine’s future
was no concern of his。 Aloud； he said； shortly； that he
was very tired and wished to find a cab。 But on Sunday
night； on the Embankment； cabs were hard to e by；
and Rodney found himself constrained to walk some distance；
at any rate； in Denham’s pany。 Denham maintained
his silence。 Rodney’s irritation lapsed。 He found
the silence oddly suggestive of the good masculine qualities
which he much respected； and had at this moment
great reason to need。 After the mystery； difficulty； and
uncertainty of dealing with the other sex； intercourse
with one’s own is apt to have a posing and even
ennobling influence； since plain speaking is