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them； and supposing that they had not quite reached
that degree of subtlety。 She bought herself an evening
paper； which she read as she ate； looking over the top of
it again and again at the queer people who were buying
cakes or imparting their secrets； until some young woman
whom she knew came in； and she called out； “Eleanor；
e and sit by me；” and they finished their lunch together；
parting on the strip of pavement among the different
lines of traffic with a pleasant feeling that they
were stepping once more into their separate places in
the great and eternally moving pattern of human life。
But； instead of going straight back to the office today；
Mary turned into the British Museum； and strolled down
the gallery with the shapes of stone until she found an
empty seat directly beneath the gaze of the Elgin marbles。
She looked at them； and seemed； as usual； borne up on
some wave of exaltation and emotion； by which her life
at once became solemn and beautiful—an impression
which was due as much； perhaps； to the solitude and
chill and silence of the gallery as to the actual beauty of
the statues。 One must suppose； at least； that her emotions
were not purely esthetic； because； after she had
gazed at the Ulysses for a minute or two； she began to
think about Ralph Denham。 So secure did she feel with
these silent shapes that she almost yielded to an impulse
to say “I am in love with you” aloud。 The presence of this
immense and enduring beauty made her almost alarmingly
conscious of her desire； and at the same time proud
of a feeling which did not display anything like the same
proportions when she was going about her daily work。
She repressed her impulse to speak aloud； and rose and
wandered about rather aimlessly among the statues until
she found herself in another gallery devoted to engraved
obelisks and winged Assyrian bulls； and her emotion took
another turn。 She began to picture herself traveling with
Ralph in a land where these monsters were couchant in
67
Night and Day
the sand。 “For；” she thought to herself； as she gazed fixedly
at some information printed behind a piece of glass；
“the wonderful thing about you is that you’re ready for
anything； you’re not in the least conventional； like most
clever men。”
And she conjured up a scene of herself on a camel’s
back； in the desert； while Ralph manded a whole tribe
of natives。
“That is what you can do；” she went on； moving on to the
next statue。 “You always make people do what you want。”
A glow spread over her spirit； and filled her eyes with
brightness。 Nevertheless； before she left the Museum she
was very far from saying； even in the privacy of her own
mind； “I am in love with you；” and that sentence might
very well never have framed itself。 She was； indeed； rather
annoyed with herself for having allowed such an illconsidered
breach of her reserve； weakening her powers of
resistance； she felt； should this impulse return again。
For； as she walked along the street to her office； the force
of all her customary objections to being in love with any
one overcame her。 She did not want to marry at all。 It
seemed to her that there was something amateurish in
bringing love into touch with a perfectly straightforward
friendship； such as hers was with Ralph； which； for two
years now； had based itself upon mon interests in
impersonal topics； such as the housing of the poor； or
the taxation of land values。
But the afternoon spirit differed intrinsically from the
morning spirit。 Mary found herself watching the flight of
a bird； or making drawings of the branches of the plane
trees upon her blottingpaper。 People came in to see Mr。
Clacton on business； and a seductive smell of cigarette
smoke issued from his room。 Mrs。 Seal wandered about
with newspaper cuttings； which seemed to her either
“quite splendid” or “really too bad for words。” She used
to paste these into books； or send them to her friends；
having first drawn a broad bar in blue pencil down the
margin； a proceeding which signified equally and indistinguishably
the depths of her reprobation or the heights
of her approval。
About four o’clock on that same afternoon Katharine
Hilbery was walking up Kingsway。 The question of tea
68
Virginia Woolf
presented itself。 The street lamps were being lit already；
and as she stood still for a moment beneath one of them；
she tried to think of some neighboring drawingroom
where there would be firelight and talk congenial to her
mood。 That mood； owing to the spinning traffic and the
evening veil of unreality； was illadapted to her home
surroundings。 Perhaps； on the whole； a shop was the best
place in which to preserve this queer sense of heightened
existence。 At the same time she wished to talk。
Remembering Mary Datchet and her repeated invitations；
she crossed the road； turned into Russell Square； and
peered about； seeking for numbers with a sense of adventure
that was out of all proportion to the deed itself。
She found herself in a dimly lighted hall； unguarded by a
porter； and pushed open the first swing door。 But the
officeboy had never heard of Miss Datchet。 Did she belong
to the S。R。F。R。？ Katharine shook her head with a
smile of dismay。 A voice from within shouted； “No。 The
S。G。S。—top floor。”
Katharine mounted past innumerable glass doors； with
initials on them； and became steadily more and more
doubtful of the wisdom of her venture。 At the top she
paused for a moment to breathe and collect herself。 She
heard the typewriter and formal professional voices inside；
not belonging； she thought； to any one she had
ever spoken to。 She touched the bell； and the door was
opened almost immediately by Mary herself。 Her face had
to change its expression entirely when she saw Katharine。
“You！” she exclaimed。 “We thought you were the printer。”
Still holding the door open； she called back； “No； Mr。
Clacton； it’s not Penningtons。 I should ring them up again—
double three double eight； Central。 Well； this is a surpri