another came up in Ralph’s mind； but they were all； in
some way； connected with Katharine； or with vague feelings
of romance and adventure such as she inspired。 But
he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts； and he
pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling。
“Here；” he thought； “is where we differ from women； they
have no sense of romance。”
“Well； Mary；” he said at length； “why don’t you say something
amusing？”
His tone was certainly provoking； but； as a general rule；
Mary was not easily provoked。 This evening； however； she
replied rather sharply：
“Because I’ve got nothing amusing to say； I suppose。”
Ralph thought for a moment； and then remarked：
“You work too hard。 I don’t mean your health；” he added；
as she laughed scornfully； “I mean that you seem to me
to be getting wrapped up in your work。”
“And is that a bad thing？” she asked； shading her eyes
with her hand。
“I think it is；” he returned abruptly。
“But only a week ago you were saying the opposite。”
Her tone was defiant； but she became curiously depressed。
Ralph did not perceive it； and took this opportunity of
lecturing her； and expressing his latest views upon the
proper conduct of life。 She listened； but her main impression
was that he had been meeting some one who had
influenced him。 He was telling her that she ought to read
more； and to see that there were other points of view as
deserving of attention as her own。 Naturally； having last
seen him as he left the office in pany with Katharine；
she attributed the change to her； it was likely that
Katharine； on leaving the scene which she had so clearly
despised； had pronounced some such criticism； or suggested
it by her own attitude。 But she knew that Ralph
would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody。
“You don’t read enough； Mary；” he was saying。 “You
ought to read more poetry。”
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It was true that Mary’s reading had been rather limited
to such works as she needed to know for the sake of
examinations； and her time for reading in London was
very little。 For some reason； no one likes to be told that
they do not read enough poetry； but her resentment was
only visible in the way she changed the position of her
hands； and in the fixed look in her eyes。 And then she
thought to herself； “I’m behaving exactly as I said I
wouldn’t behave；” whereupon she relaxed all her muscles
and said； in her reasonable way：
“Tell me what I ought to read； then。”
Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary； and he
now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which
were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of
Mary’s character and way of life。
“You live with your inferiors；” he said； warming unreasonably；
as he knew； to his text。 “And you get into a
groove because； on the whole； it’s rather a pleasant groove。
And you tend to forget what you’re there for。 You’ve the
feminine habit of making much of details。 You don’t see
when things matter and when they don’t。 And that’s what’s
the ruin of all these organizations。 That’s why the Suffragists
have never done anything all these years。 What’s
the point of drawingroom meetings and bazaars？ You
want to have ideas； Mary； get hold of something big；
never mind making mistakes； but don’t niggle。 Why don’t
you throw it all up for a year； and travel？—see something
of the world。 Don’t be content to live with half a
dozen people in a backwater all your life。 But you won’t；”
he concluded。
“I’ve rather e to that way of thinking myself—about
myself； I mean；” said Mary； surprising him by her acquiescence。
“I should like to go somewhere far away。”
For a moment they were both silent。 Ralph then said：
“But look here； Mary； you haven’t been taking this seriously；
have you？” His irritation was spent； and the depression；
which she could not keep out of her voice； made him
feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her。
“You won’t go away； will you？” he asked。 And as she
said nothing； he added； “Oh no； don’t go away。”
“I don’t know exactly what I mean to do；” she replied。
She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans；
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but she received no encouragement。 He fell into one of
his queer silences； which seemed to Mary； in spite of all
her precautions； to have reference to what she also could
not prevent herself from thinking about—their feeling
for each other and their relationship。 She felt that the
two lines of thought bored their way in long； parallel
tunnels which came very close indeed； but never ran into
each other。
When he had gone； and he left her without breaking his
silence more than was needed to wish her good night；
she sat on for a time； reviewing what he had said。 If love
is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into
one mountain torrent； Mary was no more in love with
Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs。
But probably these extreme passions are very rare； and
the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last
stages of love； when the power to resist has been eaten
away； week by week or day by day。 Like most intelligent
people； Mary was something of an egoist； to the extent；
that is； of attaching great importance to what she felt；
and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to
make certain； from time to time； that her feelings were
creditable to her。 When Ralph left her she thought over
her state of mind； and came to the conclusion that it
would be a good thing to learn a language—say Italian
or German。 She then went to a drawer； which she had to
unlock； and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript
pages。 She read them through； looking up from her
reading every now and then and thinking very intently
for a few seconds about Ralph。 She did her best to verify
all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in
her； and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably
for them all。 Then she looked back again at her manuscript；
and decided that to write grammatical English prose
is the hardest thing in the world。 But she thought about
herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical
English prose or about Ralph Denham； and it may
therefore be disputed whether she was in love； or； if so；
to which branch of the family her passion belonged。
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Night and Day
CHAPTER XI
It’s life that matters； nothing but life—the process of
discovering； the everlasting and perpetual process；” said
Katharine； as she passed under the archway； and so into
the wide space of King’s Bench Walk； “not the discovery
itself at all。” She spoke the last words looking up at
Rodney’s windows； which were a semilucent red color； in
her honor； as she knew。 He had asked her to tea with
him。 But she was in a mood when it is almost physically
disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one’s thought； and
she walked up and down two or three times under the
trees before approaching his staircase。 She liked getting
hold of some book which neither her father or mother
had read； and keeping it to herself； and gnawing its contents
in privacy； and pondering the meaning without sharing
her thoughts with any one； or having to decide whether
the book was a good one or a bad one。 This evening she
had twisted the words of Dostoevsky to suit her mood—
a fatalistic mood—to proclaim that the process of discovery
was life； and that； presumably； the nature of one’s
goal mattered not at all。 She sat down for a moment
upon one of the seats； felt herself carried along in the
swirl of many things； decided； in her sudden way； that it
was time to heave all this thinking overboard； and rose；
leaving a fishmonger’s basket on the seat behind her。
Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon
Rodney’s door。
“Well； William；” she said； “I’m afraid I’m late。”
It was true； but he was so glad to see her that he forgot
his annoyance。 He had been occupied for over an hour in
making things ready for her； and he now had his reward
in seeing her look right and left； as she slipped her cloak
from her shoulders； with evident satisfaction； although
she said nothing。 He had seen that the fire burnt well；
jampots were on the table； tin covers shone in the fender；
and the shabby fort of the room was extreme。 He was
dressed in his old crimson dressinggown； which was faded
irregularly； and had bright new patches on it； like the
paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone。 He made
the tea； and Katharine drew off her gloves； and crossed
her legs with a gesture that was rather masculine in its
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ease。 Nor did they talk much until they were smoking
cigarettes over the fire； having placed their teacups upon
the floor between them。
They had not met since they had exchanged letters about
their relationship。 Katharine’s answer to his protestation
had been short and sensible。 Half a sheet of notepaper
contained the