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shortly。 But Rodney； now started on an agreeable current
of reflection； could not resist the temptation of pursuing
it a little further。 He appeared to himself as a man who
moved easily in very good society； and knew enough about
the true values of life to be himself above it。
“Oh； but you should；” he went on。 “It’s well worth staying
there； anyhow； once a year。 They make one very fortable；
and the women are ravishing。”
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Virginia Woolf
“The women？” Henry thought to himself； with disgust。
“What could any woman see in you？” His tolerance was
rapidly being exhausted； but he could not help liking
Rodney nevertheless； and this appeared to him strange；
for he was fastidious； and such words in another mouth
would have condemned the speaker irreparably。 He began；
in short； to wonder what kind of creature this man
who was to marry his cousin might be。 Could any one；
except a rather singular character； afford to be so ridiculously
vain？
“I don’t think I should get on in that society；” he replied。
“I don’t think I should know what to say to Lady
Rose if I met her。”
“I don’t find any difficulty；” Rodney chuckled。 “You talk
to them about their children； if they have any； or their
acplishments—painting； gardening； poetry—they’re
so delightfully sympathetic。 Seriously； you know I think a
woman’s opinion of one’s poetry is always worth having。
Don’t ask them for their reasons。 Just ask them for their
feelings。 Katharine； for example—”
“Katharine；” said Henry； with an emphasis upon the
name； almost as if he resented Rodney’s use of it；
“Katharine is very unlike most women。”
“Quite；” Rodney agreed。 “She is—” He seemed about
to describe her； and he hesitated for a long time。 “She’s
looking very well；” he stated； or rather almost inquired；
in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking。
Henry bent his head。
“But； as a family； you’re given to moods； eh？”
“Not Katharine；” said Henry； with decision。
“Not Katharine；” Rodney repeated； as if he weighed the
meaning of the words。 “No； perhaps you’re right。 But her
engagement has changed her。 Naturally；” he added； “one
would expect that to be so。” He waited for Henry to confirm
this statement； but Henry remained silent。
“Katharine has had a difficult life； in some ways；” he
continued。 “I expect that marriage will be good for her。
She has great powers。”
“Great；” said Henry； with decision。
“Yes—but now what direction d’you think they take？”
Rodney had pletely dropped his pose as a man of
the world； and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in
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Night and Day
a difficulty。
“I don’t know；” Henry hesitated cautiously。
“D’you think children—a household—that sort of
thing—d’you think that’ll satisfy her？ Mind； I’m out all
day。”
“She would certainly be very petent；” Henry stated。
“Oh； she’s wonderfully petent；” said Rodney。 “But—
I get absorbed in my poetry。 Well； Katharine hasn’t got
that。 She admires my poetry； you know； but that wouldn’t
be enough for her？”
“No；” said Henry。 He paused。 “I think you’re right；” he
added； as if he were summing up his thoughts。 “Katharine
hasn’t found herself yet。 Life isn’t altogether real to her
yet—I sometimes think—”
“Yes？” Rodney inquired； as if he were eager for Henry
to continue。 “That is what I—” he was going on； as Henry
remained silent； but the sentence was not finished； for
the door opened； and they were interrupted by Henry’s
younger brother Gilbert； much to Henry’s relief； for he
had already said more than he liked。
CHAPTER XVII
When the sun shone； as it did with unusual brightness
that Christmas week； it revealed much that was faded
and not altogether wellkeptup in Stogdon House and
its grounds。 In truth； Sir Francis had retired from service
under the Government of India with a pension that was
not adequate； in his opinion； to his services； as it certainly
was not adequate to his ambitions。 His career had
not e up to his expectations； and although he was a
very fine； whitewhiskered； mahoganycolored old man
to look at； and had laid down a very choice cellar of good
reading and good stories； you could not long remain ignorant
of the fact that some thunderstorm had soured
them； he had a grievance。 This grievance dated back to
the middle years of the last century； when； owing to some
official intrigue； his merits had been passed over in a
disgraceful manner in favor of another； his junior。
The rights and wrongs of the story； presuming that they
had some existence in fact； were no longer clearly known
to his wife and children； but this disappointment had
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Virginia Woolf
played a very large part in their lives； and had poisoned
the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is
said to poison the whole life of a woman。 Long brooding
on his failure； continual arrangement and rearrangement
of his deserts and rebuffs； had made Sir Francis much of
an egoist； and in his retirement his temper became increasingly
difficult and exacting。
His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods
that she was practically useless to him。 He made his
daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante； and the prime
of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father。 To
her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his
memory； and she had to assure him constantly that his
treatment had been a disgrace。 Already； at the age of
thirtyfive； her cheeks were whitening as her mother’s
had whitened； but for her there would be no memories of
Indian suns and Indian rivers； and clamor of children in a
nursery； she would have very little of substance to think
about when she sat； as Lady Otway now sat； knitting
white wool； with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon
the same embroidered bird upon the same firescreen。
But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the
great makebelieve game of English social life has been
invented； she spent most of her time