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“And poetry；” Cassandra added。
“Yes； I was forgetting his play；” Katharine remarked；
and turning her head as though she saw something that
needed her attention in a far corner of the room； she left
them。
For a moment they stood silent； after what seemed a
deliberate introduction to each other； and Cassandra
watched her crossing the room。
“Henry；” she said next moment； “would say that a stage
ought to be no bigger than this drawingroom。 He wants
there to be singing and dancing as well as acting—only
all the opposite of Wagner—you understand？”
They sat down； and Katharine； turning when she reached
the window； saw William with his hand raised in gesticulation
and his mouth open； as if ready to speak the moment
Cassandra ceased。
Katharine’s duty； whether it was to pull a curtain or
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Night and Day
move a chair； was either forgotten or discharged； but she
continued to stand by the window without doing anything。
The elderly people were all grouped together round
the fire。 They seemed an independent； middleaged munity
busy with its own concerns。 They were telling
stories very well and listening to them very graciously。
But for her there was no obvious employment。
“If anybody says anything； I shall say that I’m looking
at the river；” she thought； for in her slavery to her family
traditions； she was ready to pay for her transgression
with some plausible falsehood。 She pushed aside the blind
and looked at the river。 But it was a dark night and the
water was barely visible。 Cabs were passing； and couples
were loitering slowly along the road； keeping as close to
the railings as possible； though the trees had as yet no
leaves to cast shadow upon their embraces。 Katharine；
thus withdrawn； felt her loneliness。 The evening had been
one of pain； offering her； minute after minute； plainer
proof that things would fall out as she had foreseen。 She
had faced tones； gestures； glances； she knew； with her
back to them； that William； even now； was plunging deeper
and deeper into the delight of unexpected understanding
with Cassandra。 He had almost told her that he was finding
it infinitely better than he could have believed。 She
looked out of the window； sternly determined to forget
private misfortunes； to forget herself； to forget individual
lives。 With her eyes upon the dark sky； voices reached her
from the room in which she was standing。 She heard them
as if they came from people in another world； a world
antecedent to her world； a world that was the prelude；
the antechamber to reality； it was as if； lately dead； she
heard the living talking。 The dream nature of our life had
never been more apparent to her； never had life been
more certainly an affair of four walls； whose objects existed
only within the range of lights and fires； beyond
which lay nothing； or nothing more than darkness。 She
seemed physically to have stepped beyond the region
where the light of illusion still makes it desirable to possess；
to love； to struggle。 And yet her melancholy brought
her no serenity。 She still heard the voices within the room。
She was still tormented by desires。 She wished to be beyond
their range。 She wished inconsistently enough that
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Virginia Woolf
she could find herself driving rapidly through the streets；
she was even anxious to be with some one who； after a
moment’s groping； took a definite shape and solidified
into the person of Mary Datchet。 She drew the curtains so
that the draperies met in deep folds in the middle of the
window。
“Ah； there she is；” said Mr。 Hilbery； who was standing
swaying affably from side to side； with his back to the
fire。 “e here； Katharine。 I couldn’t see where you’d
got to—our children；” he observed parenthetically； “have
their uses—I want you to go to my study； Katharine； go
to the third shelf on the righthand side of the door； take
down ‘Trelawny’s Recollections of Shelley’； bring it to me。
Then； Peyton； you will have to admit to the assembled
pany that you have been mistaken。”
“‘Trelawny’s Recollections of Shelley。’ The third shelf on
the right of the door；” Katharine repeated。 After all； one
does not check children in their play； or rouse sleepers
from their dreams。 She passed William and Cassandra on
her way to the door。
“Stop； Katharine；” said William； speaking almost as if he
were conscious of her against his will。 “Let me go。” He rose；
after a second’s hesitation； and she understood that it cost
him an effort。 She knelt one knee upon the sofa where
Cassandra sat； looking down at her cousin’s face； which still
moved with the speed of what she had been saying。
“Are you—happy？” she asked。
“Oh； my dear！” Cassandra exclaimed； as if no further
words were needed。 “Of course； we disagree about every
subject under the sun；” she exclaimed； “but I think he’s
the cleverest man I’ve ever met—and you’re the most
beautiful woman；” she added； looking at Katharine； and
as she looked her face lost its animation and became
almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine’s melancholy；
which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of
her distinction。
“Ah； but it’s only ten o’clock；” said Katharine darkly。
“As late as that！ Well—？” She did not understand。
“At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go。 The
illusion fades。 But I accept my fate。 I make hay while the
sun shines。” Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression。
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Night and Day
“Here’s Katharine talking about rats； and hay； and all
sorts of odd things；” she said； as William returned to
them。 He had been quick。 “Can you make her out？”
Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation
that he did not find that particular problem to his
taste at present。 She stood upright at once and said in a
different tone：
“I really am off； though。 I wish you’d explain if they
say anything； William。 I shan’t be late； but I’ve got to see
some one。”
“At this time of night？” Cassandra exclaimed。
“Whom h