brown color； they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and
speculate； but Katharine only looked at him to wonder
whether his face would not have e nearer the standard
of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side
whiskers。 In his spare build and thin； though healthy；
cheeks； she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul。 His
voice； she noticed； had a slight vibrating or creaking sound
in it； as he laid down the manuscript and said：
“You must be very proud of your family； Miss Hilbery。”
“Yes； I am；” Katharine answered； and she added； “Do
you think there’s anything wrong in that？”
“Wrong？ How should it be wrong？ It must be a bore；
though； showing your things to visitors；” he added reflectively。
“Not if the visitors like them。”
“Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors？” he proceeded。
“I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry；” Katharine
replied。
“No。 And that’s what I should hate。 I couldn’t bear my
grandfather to cut me out。 And； after all；” Denham went
on； glancing round him satirically； as Katharine thought；
10
Virginia Woolf
“it’s not your grandfather only。 You’re cut out all the way
round。 I suppose you e of one of the most distinguished
families in England。 There are the Warburtons
and the Mannings—and you’re related to the Otways；
aren’t you？ I read it all in some magazine；” he added。
“The Otways are my cousins；” Katharine replied。
“Well；” said Denham； in a final tone of voice； as if his
argument were proved。
“Well；” said Katharine； “I don’t see that you’ve proved
anything。”
Denham smiled； in a peculiarly provoking way。 He was
amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy
his oblivious； supercilious hostess； if he could not impress
her； though he would have preferred to impress her。
He sat silent； holding the precious little book of poems
unopened in his hands； and Katharine watched him； the
melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her
eyes as her annoyance faded。 She appeared to be considering
many things。 She had forgotten her duties。
“Well；” said Denham again； suddenly opening the little
book of poems； as though he had said all that he meant
to say or could； with propriety； say。 He turned over the
pages with great decision； as if he were judging the book
in its entirety； the printing and paper and binding； as
well as the poetry； and then； having satisfied himself of
its good or bad quality； he placed it on the writingtable；
and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which
had belonged to the soldier。
“But aren’t you proud of your family？” Katharine demanded。
“No；” said Denham。 “We’ve never done anything to be
proud of—unless you count paying one’s bills a matter
for pride。”
“That sounds rather dull；” Katharine remarked。
“You would think us horribly dull；” Denham agreed。
“Yes； I might find you dull； but I don’t think I should
find you ridiculous；” Katharine added； as if Denham had
actually brought that charge against her family。
“No—because we’re not in the least ridiculous。 We’re a
respectable middleclass family； living at Highgate。”
“We don’t live at Highgate； but we’re middle class too；
I suppose。”
11
Night and Day
Denham merely smiled； and replacing the malacca cane
on the rack； he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath。
“That belonged to Clive； so we say；” said Katharine；
taking up her duties as hostess again automatically。
“Is it a lie？” Denham inquired。
“It’s a family tradition。 I don’t know that we can prove
it。”
“You see； we don’t have traditions in our family；” said
Denham。
“You sound very dull；” Katharine remarked； for the second
time。
“Merely middle class；” Denham replied。
“You pay your bills； and you speak the truth。 I don’t see
why you should despise us。”
Mr。 Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the
Hilberys said belonged to Clive。
“I shouldn’t like to be you； that’s all I said；” he replied；
as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he
could。
“No； but one never would like to be any one else。”
“I should。 I should like to be lots of other people。”
“Then why not us？” Katharine asked。
Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather’s
armchair； drawing her greatuncle’s malacca cane
smoothly through her fingers； while her background was
made up equally of lustrous blueandwhite paint； and
crimson books with gilt lines on them。 The vitality and
posure of her attitude； as of a brightplumed bird
poised easily before further flights； roused him to show
her the limitations of her lot。 So soon； so easily； would
he be forgotten。
“You’ll never know anything at first hand；” he began；
almost savagely。 “It’s all been done for you。 You’ll never
know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for
them； or reading books for the first time； or making discoveries。”
“Go on；” Katharine observed； as he paused； suddenly
doubtful； when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these
facts； whether there was any truth in them。
“Of course； I don’t know how you spend your time；” he
continued； a little stiffly； “but I suppose you have to
show people round。 You are writing a life of your grand
12
Virginia Woolf
father； aren’t you？ And this kind of thing”—he nodded
towards the other room； where they could hear bursts of
cultivated laughter—”must take up a lot of time。”
She looked at him expectantly； as if between them they
were decorating a small figure of herself； and she saw
him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash。
“You’ve got it very nearly right；” she said； “but I only
help my mother。 I don’t write myself。”
“Do you do anything yourself？” he demanded。
“What do you mean？” she asked。 “I don’t leave the
house at ten and e back at six。”
“I don’t mean that。”
Mr。 Denham had recovered his selfcontrol； he spoke
with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious
that he should explain himself； but at the same time she
wished to annoy him； to waft him away from her on some
light current of ridicule or satire； as she was wont to do
with these intermittent young men of her father’s。
“Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays；”
she remarked。 “You see”—she tapped the volume of her
grandfather’s poems—”we don’t even print as well as they
did； and as for poets or painters or novelists—there are
none； so； at any rate； I’m not singular。”
“No； we haven’t any great men；” Denham replied。 “I’m
very glad that we haven’t。 I hate great men。 The worship
of greatness in the nieenth century seems to me to
explain the worthlessness of that generation。”
Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath； as if
to reply with equal vigor； when the shutting of a door in
the next room withdrew her attention； and they both
became conscious that the voices； which had been rising
and falling round the teatable； had fallen silent； the
light； even； seemed to have sunk lower。 A moment later
Mrs。 Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the anteroom。
She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on
her face； as if a scene from the drama of the younger
generation were being played for her benefit。 She was a
remarkablelooking woman； well advanced in the sixties；
but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness
of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over
the surface of the years without taking much harm in the
passage。 Her face was shrunken and aquiline； but any
13
Night and Day
hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes； at
once sagacious and innocent； which seemed to regard
the world with an enormous desire that it should behave
itself nobly； and an entire confidence that it could do so；
if it would only take the pains。
Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips
might be taken to suggest that she had known moments
of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her
career； but these had not destroyed her trustfulness； and
she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number
of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of
the doubt。 She wore a great resemblance to her father；
and suggested； as he did； the fresh airs and open spaces
of a younger world。
“Well；” she said； “how do you like our things； Mr。
Denham？”
Mr。 Denham rose； put his book down； opened his
mouth； but said nothing； as Katharine observed； with
some amusement。
Mrs。 Hilbery handled the book he had laid down。
“There are some books that live；” she mused。 “They are
young with us； and they grow old with us。 Are you fond
of poetry； Mr。 Denham？ But what an absurd question to
ask！ The truth is； dear Mr。 Fortescue has almost tired me
out。 He is so eloquent and so witty； so searching and so
profound that； after half an hour or so； I feel inclined to
turn out all the lights。 But perhaps he’d be more wonderful
than ever in the dark。 What d’yo