their relationship。 Katharine’s answer to his protestation
had been short and sensible。 Half a sheet of notepaper
contained the whole of it； for she merely had to say that
she was not in love with him； and so could not marry
him； but their friendship would continue； she hoped；
unchanged。 She had added a postscript in which she
stated； “I like your son very much。”
So far as William was concerned； this appearance of
ease was assumed。 Three times that afternoon he had
dressed himself in a tailcoat； and three times he had
discarded it for an old dressinggown； three times he had
placed his pearl tiepin in position； and three times he
had removed it again； the little lookingglass in his room
being the witness of these changes of mind。 The question
was； which would Katharine prefer on this particular
afternoon in December？ He read her note once more； and
the postscript about the son settled the matter。 Evi
dently she admired most the poet in him； and as this； on
the whole； agreed with his own opinion； he decided to
err； if anything； on the side of shabbiness。 His demeanor
was also regulated with premeditation； he spoke little；
and only on impersonal matters； he wished her to realize
that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing
nothing remarkable； although； in fact； that was a point
about which he was not at all sure。
Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing
thoughts； and if he had been pletely master
of himself； he might； indeed； have plained that she
was a trifle absentminded。 The ease； the familiarity of
the situation alone with Rodney； among teacups and
candles； had more effect upon her than was apparent。
She asked to look at his books； and then at his pictures。
It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her
hands that she exclaimed； impulsively； if incongruously：
“My oysters！ I had a basket；” she explained； “and I’ve
left it somewhere。 Uncle Dudley dines with us tonight。
What in the world have I done with them？”
She rose and began to wander about the room。 William
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rose also； and stood in front of the fire； muttering； “Oysters；
oysters—your basket of oysters！” but though he
looked vaguely here and there； as if the oysters might be
on the top of the bookshelf； his eyes returned always to
Katharine。 She drew the curtain and looked out among
the scanty leaves of the plarees。
“I had them；” she calculated； “in the Strand； I sat on a
seat。 Well； never mind；” she concluded； turning back into
the room abruptly； “I dare say some old creature is enjoying
them by this time。”
“I should have thought that you never forgot anything；”
William remarked； as they settled down again。
“That’s part of the myth about me； I know；” Katharine
replied。
“And I wonder；” William proceeded； with some caution；
“what the truth about you is？ But I know this sort of
thing doesn’t interest you；” he added hastily； with a touch
of peevishness。
“No； it doesn’t interest me very much；” she replied candidly。
“What shall we talk about then？” he asked。
She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the
room。
“However we start； we end by talking about the same
thing—about poetry； I mean。 I wonder if you realize；
William； that I’ve never read even Shakespeare？ It’s rather
wonderful how I’ve kept it up all these years。”
“You’ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully； as far
as I’m concerned；” he said。
“Ten years？ So long as that？”
“And I don’t think it’s always bored you；” he added。
She looked into the fire silently。 She could not deny
that the surface of her feeling was absolutely unruffled
by anything in William’s character； on the contrary； she
felt certain that she could deal with whatever turned up。
He gave her peace； in which she could think of things
that were far removed from what they talked about。 Even
now； when he sat within a yard of her； how easily her
mind ranged hither and thither！ Suddenly a picture presented
itself before her； without any effort on her part as
pictures will； of herself in these very rooms； she had e
in from a lecture； and she held a pile of books in her
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hand； scientific books； and books about mathematics and
astronomy which she had mastered。 She put them down
on the table over there。 It was a picture plucked from her
life two or three years hence； when she was married to
William； but here she checked herself abruptly。
She could not entirely forget William’s presence； because；
in spite of his efforts to control himself； his nervousness
was apparent。 On such occasions his eyes protruded
more than ever； and his face had more than ever
the appearance of being covered with a thin crackling
skin； through which every flush of his volatile blood
showed itself instantly。 By this time he had shaped so
many sentences and rejected them； felt so many impulses
and subdued them； that he was a uniform scarlet。
“You may say you don’t read books；” he remarked； “but；
all the same； you know about them。 Besides； who wants
you to be learned？ Leave that to the poor devils who’ve
got nothing better to do。 You—you—ahem！—”
“Well； then； why don’t you read me something before I
go？” said Katharine； looking at her watch。
“Katharine； you’ve only just e！ Let me see now； what
have I got to show you？” He rose； and stirred about the
papers on his table； as if in doubt； he then picked up a
manuscript； and after spreading it smoothly upon his knee；
he looked up at Katharine suspiciously。 He caught her
smiling。
“I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness；” he
burst out。 “Let’s find something else to talk about。 Who
have you been seeing？”
“I don’t generally ask things out of kindness；” Katharine
observed； “however； if you don’t want to read； you
needn’t。”
William gave a queer snort of exasperation； and opened
his manuscript once more； though he kept his eyes upon
her face as he did so。 No face could have been graver or
more judicial。
“One can trust you； certainly； to say unpleasant things；”
he said； smoothing out the page； clearing his throat； and
reading half a stanza to himself。 “Ahem！ The Princess is
lost in the wood； and she hears the sound of a horn。
（This would all be very pretty on the stage； but I can’t
get the effect here。） Anyhow； Sylvano enters； acpa
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Night and Day
nied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian’s court。 I
begin where he soliloquizes。” He jerked his head and began
to read。
Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge
of literature； she listened attentively。 At least； she listened
to the first twentyfive lines attentively； and then
she frowned。 Her attention was only aroused again when
Rodney raised his finger—a sign； she knew； that the meter
was about to change。
His theory was that every mood has its meter。 His mastery
of meters was very great； and； if the beauty of a
drama depended upon the variety of measures in which
the personages speak； Rodney’s plays must have challenged
the works of Shakespeare。 Katharine’s ignorance
of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly
certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill
stupor in the audience； such as overcame her as the lines
flowed on； sometimes long and sometimes short； but always
delivered with the same lilt of voice； which seemed
to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer’s
brain。 Still； she reflected； these sorts of skill are almost
exclusively masculine； women neither practice them nor
know how to value them； and one’s husband’s proficiency
in this direction might legitimately increase one’s respect
for him； since mystification is no bad basis for respect。
No one could doubt that William was a scholar。 The reading
ended with the finish of the Act； Katharine had prepared
a little speech。
“That seems to me extremely well written； William； although；
of course； I don’t know enough to criticize in
detail。”
“But it’s the skill that strikes you—not the emotion？”
“In a fragment like that； of course； the skill strikes one
most。”
“But perhaps—have you time to listen to one more
short piece？ the scene between the lovers？ There’s some
real feeling in that； I think。 Denham agrees that it’s the
best thing I’ve done。”
“You’ve read it to Ralph Denham？” Katharine inquired；
with surprise。 “He’s a better judge than I am。 What did
he say？”
“My dear Katharine；” Rodney exclaimed； “I don’t ask
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you for criticism； as I should ask a scholar。 I dare say
there are only five men in England whose opinion of my
work matters a straw to me。 But I trust you where feeling
is concerned。 I had you in my mind often when I was
writing those scenes。 I kept asking myself； ‘Now is this
the sort of thing Katharine would like？’ I always think of
you when I’m writing； Katharine； even when it’s the sort
of thing you wouldn’t kno