meal passed in quiet； wellcontrolled talk about indifferent
things。 Music was not a subject about which she knew
anything； but she liked him to tell her things； and could；
she mused； as he talked； fancy the evenings of married
life spent thus； over the fire； spent thus； or with a book；
perhaps； for then she would have time to read her books；
and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind
what she longed to know。 The atmosphere was very free。
Suddenly William broke off。 She looked up apprehensively；
brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance。
“Where should I address a letter to Cassandra？” he asked
her。 It was obvious again that William had some meaning
or other tonight； or was in some mood。 “We’ve struck up
a friendship；” he added。
“She’s at home； I think；” Katharine replied。
“They keep her too much at home；” said William。 “Why
don’t you ask her to stay with you； and let her hear a
little good music？ I’ll just finish what I was saying； if you
don’t mind； because I’m particularly anxious that she
should hear tomorrow。”
Katharine sank back in her chair； and Rodney took the
paper on his knees； and went on with his sentence。 “Style；
you know； is what we tend to neglect—”； but he was far
more conscious of Katharine’s eye upon him than of what
he was saying about style。 He knew that she was looking
at him； but whether with irritation or indifference he
could not guess。
In truth； she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel
unfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed
on the lines laid down for herself。 This indifferent；
if not hostile； attitude on William’s part made it impos
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sible to break off without animosity； largely and pletely。
Infinitely preferable was Mary’s state； she thought；
where there was a simple thing to do and one did it。 In
fact； she could not help supposing that some littleness
of nature had a part in all the refinements； reserves； and
subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were
so distinguished。 For example； although she liked
Cassandra well enough； her fantastic method of life struck
her as purely frivolous； now it was socialism； now it was
silkworms； now it was music—which last she supposed
was the cause of William’s sudden interest in her。 Never
before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in
writing his letters。 With a curious sense of light opening
where all； hitherto； had been opaque； it dawned upon
her that； after all； possibly； yes； probably； nay； certainly；
the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for
granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had
suspected； or existed no longer。 She looked at him attentively
as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his
face。 Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance；
so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness
and intelligence； although she saw these qualities as if
they were those one responds to； dumbly； in the face of a
stranger。 The head bent over the paper； thoughtful as
usual； had now a posure which seemed somehow to
place it at a distance； like a face seen talking to some
one else behind glass。
He wrote on； without raising his eyes。 She would have
spoken； but could not bring herself to ask him for signs
of affection which she had no right to claim。 The conviction
that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency；
and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite
loneliness of human beings。 She had never felt the
truth of this so strongly before。 She looked away into the
fire； it seemed to her that even physically they were now
scarcely within speaking distance； and spiritually there
was certainly no human being with whom she could claim
radeship； no dream that satisfied her as she was used
to be satisfied； nothing remained in whose reality she
could believe； save those abstract ideas—figures； laws；
stars； facts； which she could hardly hold to for lack of
knowledge and a kind of shame。
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Night and Day
When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged
silence； and the meanness of such devices； and
looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh； or
opening for a confession； he was disconcerted by what
he saw。 Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was
bad or of what was good in him。 Her expression suggested
concentration upon something entirely remote from
her surroundings。 The carelessness of her attitude seemed
to him rather masculine than feminine。 His impulse to
break up the constraint was chilled； and once more the
exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him。
He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision
of the engaging； whimsical Cassandra； Katharine undemonstrative；
inconsiderate； silent； and yet so notable that
he could never do without her good opinion。
She veered round upon him a moment later； as if； when
her train of thought was ended； she became aware of his
presence。
“Have you finished your letter？” she asked。 He thought
he heard faint amusement in her tone； but not a trace of
jealousy。
“No； I’m not going to write any more tonight；” he said。
“I’m not in the mood for it for some reason。 I can’t say
what I want to say。”
“Cassandra won’t know if it’s well written or badly written；”
Katharine remarked。
“I’m not so sure about that。 I should say she has a
good deal of literary feeling。”
“Perhaps；” said Katharine indifferently。 “You’ve been
neglecting my education lately； by the way。 I wish you’d
read something。 Let me choose a book。” So speaking； she
went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a
desultory way among his books。 Anything； she thought；
was better than bickering or the strange silence which
drove home to her the distance between them。 As she
pulled one book forward and then another she thought
ironically of her own certainty not an hour ago； how it
had vanished in a moment； how she was merely marking
time as best she could； not knowing in the least where
they stood； what they felt； or whether William loved her
or not。 More and more the condition of Mary’s mind seemed
to her wonderful and enviable—if； indeed； it could be
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quite as she figured it—if； indeed； simplicity existed for
any one of the daughters of women。
“Swift；” she said； at last； taking out a volume at haphazard
to settle this question at least。 “Let us have some
Swift。”
Rodney took the book； held it in front of him； inserted
one finger between the pages； but said nothing。 His face
wore a queer expression of deliberation； as if he were
weighing one thing with another； and would not say anything
until his mind were made up。
Katharine； taking her chair beside him； noted his silence
and looked at him with sudden apprehension。 What
she hoped or feared； she could not have said； a most
irrational and indefensible desire for some assurance of
his affection was； perhaps； uppermost in her mind。 Peevishness；
plaints； exacting crossexamination she was
used to； but this attitude of posed quiet； which
seemed to e from the consciousness of power within；
puzzled her。 She did not know what was going to happen
next。
At last William spoke。
“I think it’s a little odd； don’t you？” he said； in a voice
of detached reflection。 “Most people； I mean； would be
seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months
or so。 But we aren’t； now how do you account for that？”
She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as
of one holding far aloof from emotion。
“I attribute it；” he went on； without waiting for her to
answer； “to the fact that neither of us is in the least
romantic about the other。 That may be partly； no doubt；
because we’ve known each other so long； but I’m inclined
to think there’s more in it than that。 There’s something
temperamental。 I think you’re a trifle cold； and I
suspect I’m a trifle selfabsorbed。 If that were so it goes
a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about
each other。 I’m not saying that the most satisfactory
marriages aren’t founded upon this sort of understanding。
But certainly it struck me as odd this morning； when
Wilson told me； how little upset I felt。 By the way； you’re
sure we haven’t mitted ourselves to that house？”
“I’ve kept the letters； and I’ll go through them tomorrow；
but I’m certain we’re on the safe side。”
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Night and Day
“Thanks。 As to the psychological problem；” he continued；
as if the question interested him in a detached way；
“there’s no doubt； I think； that either of us is capable of
feeling what； for reasons of simplicity； I call romance for
a third person—at least； I’ve little doubt in my own case。”
It was； perhaps； the first time in all her knowledge of
him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately
and without sign of emotion upon a statement of
his own feelings。 He was wont to discourage such intimate
discussions by a little laugh or