mother； the lips parting often to speak； and closing again；
and the dark oval eyes of her father brimming with light
upon a basis of sadness； or； since she was too young to
have acquired a sorrowful point of view； one might say
that the basis was not sadness so much as a spirit given
to contemplation and selfcontrol。 Judging by her hair；
her coloring； and the shape of her features； she was striking；
if not actually beautiful。 Decision and posure
stamped her； a bination of qualities that produced a
very marked character； and one that was not calculated
to put a young man； who scarcely knew her； at his ease。
For the rest； she was tall； her dress was of some quiet
color； with old yellowtinted lace for ornament； to which
the spark of an ancient jewel gave its one red gleam。
Denham noticed that； although silent； she kept sufficient
control of the situation to answer immediately her
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Virginia Woolf
mother appealed to her for help； and yet it was obvious to
him that she attended only with the surface skin of her
mind。 It struck him that her position at the teatable； among
all these elderly people； was not without its difficulties；
and he checked his inclination to find her； or her attitude；
generally antipathetic to him。 The talk had passed over
Manchester； after dealing with it very generously。
“Would it be the Battle of Trafalgar or the Spanish Armada；
Katharine？” her mother demanded。
“Trafalgar； mother。”
“Trafalgar； of course！ How stupid of me！ Another cup of
tea； with a thin slice of lemon in it； and then； dear Mr。
Fortescue； please explain my absurd little puzzle。 One
can’t help believing gentlemen with Roman noses； even
if one meets them in omnibuses。”
Mr。 Hilbery here interposed so far as Denham was concerned；
and talked a great deal of sense about the solicitors’
profession； and the changes which he had seen in
his lifetime。 Indeed； Denham properly fell to his lot； owing
to the fact that an article by Denham upon some
legal matter； published by Mr。 Hilbery in his Review； had
brought them acquainted。 But when a moment later Mrs。
Sutton Bailey was announced； he turned to her； and Mr。
Denham found himself sitting silent； rejecting possible
things to say； beside Katharine； who was silent too。 Being
much about the same age and both under thirty； they
were prohibited from the use of a great many convenient
phrases which launch conversation into smooth waters。
They were further silenced by Katharine’s rather malicious
determination not to help this young man； in whose
upright and resolute bearing she detected something
hostile to her surroundings； by any of the usual feminine
amenities。 They therefore sat silent； Denham controlling
his desire to say something abrupt and explosive； which
should shock her into life。 But Mrs。 Hilbery was immediately
sensitive to any silence in the drawingroom； as of
a dumb note in a sonorous scale； and leaning across the
table she observed； in the curiously tentative detached
manner which always gave her phrases the likeness of
butterflies flaunting from one sunny spot to another；
“D’you know； Mr。 Denham； you remind me so much of
dear Mr。 Ruskin… 。 Is it his tie； Katharine； or his hair； or
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Night and Day
the way he sits in his chair？ Do tell me； Mr。 Denham； are
you an admirer of Ruskin？ Some one； the other day； said
to me； ‘Oh； no； we don’t read Ruskin； Mrs。 Hilbery。’ What
do you read； I wonder？—for you can’t spend all your time
going up in aeroplanes and burrowing into the bowels of
the earth。”
She looked benevolently at Denham； who said nothing
articulate； and then at Katharine； who smiled but said
nothing either； upon which Mrs。 Hilbery seemed possessed
by a brilliant idea； and exclaimed：
“I’m sure Mr。 Denham would like to see our things；
Katharine。 I’m sure he’s not like that dreadful young man；
Mr。 Ponting； who told me that he considered it our duty
to live exclusively in the present。 After all； what IS the
present？ Half of it’s the past； and the better half； too； I
should say；” she added； turning to Mr。 Fortescue。
Denham rose； half meaning to go； and thinking that he
had seen all that there was to see； but Katharine rose at
the same moment； and saying； “Perhaps you would like
to see the pictures；” led the way across the drawing
room to a smaller room opening out of it。
The smaller room was something like a chapel in a cathedral；
or a grotto in a cave； for the booming sound of
the traffic in the distance suggested the soft surge of waters；
and the oval mirrors； with their silver surface； were
like deep pools trembling beneath starlight。 But the parison
to a religious temple of some kind was the more
apt of the two； for the little room was crowded with relics。
As Katharine touched different spots； lights sprang here
and there； and revealed a square mass of redandgold
books； and then a long skirt in blueandwhite paint lustrous
behind glass； and then a mahogany writingtable；
with its orderly equipment； and； finally； a picture above
the table； to which special illumination was accorded。
When Katharine had touched these last lights； she stood
back； as much as to say； “There！” Denham found himself
looked down upon by the eyes of the great poet； Richard
Alardyce； and suffered a little shock which would have
led him； had he been wearing a hat； to remove it。 The
eyes looked at him out of the mellow pinks and yellows
of the paint with divine friendliness； which embraced him；
and passed on to contemplate the entire world。 The paint
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Virginia Woolf
had so faded that very little but the beautiful large eyes
were left； dark in the surrounding dimness。
Katharine waited as though for him to receive a full
impression； and then she said：
“This is his writingtable。 He used this pen；” and she
lifted a quill pen and laid it down again。 The writing
table was splashed with old ink； and the pen disheveled
in service。 There lay the gigantic goldrimmed spectacles；
ready to his hand； and beneath the table was a pair of
large； worn slippers； one of which Katharine picked up；
remarking：
“I think my grandfather must have been at least twice as
large as any one is nowadays。 This；” she went on； as if she
knew what she had to say by heart； “is the original manuscript
of the ‘Ode to Winter。’ The early poems are far less
corrected than the later。 Would you like to look at it？”
While Mr。 Denham examined the manuscript； she glanced
up at her grandfather； and； for the thousandth time； fell
into a pleasant dreamy state in which she seemed to be
the panion of those giant men； of their own lineage；
at any rate； and the insignificant present moment was
put to shame。 That magnificent ghostly head on the canvas；
surely； never beheld all the trivialities of a Sunday
afternoon； and it did not seem to matter what she and
this young man said to each other； for they were only
small people。
“This is a copy of the first edition of the poems；” she
continued； without considering the fact that Mr。 Denham
was still occupied with the manuscript； “which contains
several poems that have not been reprinted； as well as
corrections。” She paused for a minute； and then went on；
as if these spaces had all been calculated。
“That lady in blue is my greatgrandmother； by
Millington。 Here is my uncle’s walkingstick—he was Sir
Richard Warburton； you know； and rode with Havelock to
the Relief of Lucknow。 And then； let me see—oh； that’s
the original Alardyce； 1697； the founder of the family
fortunes； with his wife。 Some one gave us this bowl the
other day because it has their crest and initials。 We think
it must have been given them to celebrate their silver
weddingday。”
Here she stopped for a moment； wondering why it was
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Night and Day
that Mr。 Denham said nothing。 Her feeling that he was
antagonistic to her； which had lapsed while she thought
of her family possessions； returned so keenly that she
stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him。
Her mother； wishing to connect him reputably with the
great dead； had pared him with Mr。 Ruskin； and the
parison was in Katharine’s mind； and led her to be
more critical of the young man than was fair； for a young
man paying a call in a tailcoat is in a different element
altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness；
gazing immutably from behind a sheet of glass；
which was all that remained to her of Mr。 Ruskin。 He had
a singular face—a face built for swiftness and decision
rather than for massive contemplation； the forehead broad；
the nose long and formidable； the lips cleanshaven and
at once dogged and sensitive； the cheeks lean； with a
deeply running tide of red blood in them。 His eyes； expressive
now of the usual masculine impersonality and
authority； might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable
circumstances； for they were large； and of a clear；
brown color； they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and
speculate； but Katharine only looked at hi