found it “fascinating。” The word was underlined。 Had she
laughed when she drew that line？ Was she ever serious？
Didn’t the letter show the most engaging pound of
enthusiasm and spirit and whimsicality； all tapering into
a flame of girlish freakishness； which flitted； for the rest
of the morning； as a willo’thewisp； across Rodney’s
landscape。 He could not resist beginning an answer to
her there and then。 He found it particularly delightful to
shape a style which should express the bowing and curtsying；
advancing and retreating； which are characteristic
of one of the many million partnerships of men and
women。 Katharine never trod that particular measure； he
could not help reflecting； Katharine—Cassandra；
Cassandra—Katharine—they alternated in his consciousness
all day long。 It was all very well to dress oneself
carefully； pose one’s face； and start off punctually at
halfpast four to a teaparty in Cheyne Walk； but Heaven
only knew what would e of it all； and when Katharine；
after sitting silent with her usual immobility； wantonly
drew from her pocket and slapped down on the table
beneath his eyes a letter addressed to Cassandra herself；
his posure deserted him。 What did she mean by her
behavior？
He looked up sharply from his row of little pictures。
Katharine was disposing of the American lady in far too
arbitrary a fashion。 Surely the victim herself must see
how foolish her enthusiasms appeared in the eyes of the
poet’s granddaughter。 Katharine never made any attempt
to spare people’s feelings； he reflected； and； being him
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self very sensitive to all shades of fort and disfort；
he cut short the auctioneer’s catalog； which Katharine
was reeling off more and more absentmindedly； and took
Mrs。 Vermont Bankes； with a queer sense of fellowship in
suffering； under his own protection。
But within a few minutes the American lady had pleted
her inspection； and inclining her head in a little
nod of reverential farewell to the poet and his shoes； she
was escorted downstairs by Rodney。 Katharine stayed by
herself in the little room。 The ceremony of ancestorworship
had been more than usually oppressive to her。 Moreover；
the room was being crowded beyond the bounds
of order。 Only that morning a heavily insured proofsheet
had reached them from a collector in Australia； which
recorded a change of the poet’s mind about a very famous
phrase； and； therefore； had claims to the honor of
glazing and framing。 But was there room for it？ Must it
be hung on the staircase； or should some other relic give
place to do it honor？ Feeling unable to decide the question；
Katharine glanced at the portrait of her grandfather；
as if to ask his opinion。 The artist who had painted
it was now out of fashion； and by dint of showing it to
visitors； Katharine had almost ceased to see anything
but a glow of faintly pleasing pink and brown tints； enclosed
within a circular scroll of gilt laurelleaves。 The
young man who was her grandfather looked vaguely over
her head。 The sensual lips were slightly parted； and gave
the face an expression of beholding something lovely or
miraculous vanishing or just rising upon the rim of the
distance。 The expression repeated itself curiously upon
Katharine’s face as she gazed up into his。 They were the
same age； or very nearly so。 She wondered what he was
looking for； were there waves beating upon a shore for
him； too； she wondered； and heroes riding through the
leafhung forests？ For perhaps the first time in her life
she thought of him as a man； young； unhappy； tempestuous；
full of desires and faults； for the first time she realized
him for herself； and not from her mother’s memory。
He might have been her brother； she thought。 It seemed
to her that they were akin； with the mysterious kinship
of blood which makes it seem possible to interpret the
sights which the eyes of the dead behold so intently； or
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even to believe that they look with us upon our present
joys and sorrows。 He would have understood； she thought；
suddenly； and instead of laying her withered flowers upon
his shrine； she brought him her own perplexities—perhaps
a gift of greater value； should the dead be conscious
of gifts； than flowers and incense and adoration。
Doubts； questionings； and despondencies she felt； as she
looked up； would be more wele to him than homage；
and he would hold them but a very small burden if she
gave him； also； some share in what she suffered and
achieved。 The depth of her own pride and love were not
more apparent to her than the sense that the dead asked
neither flowers nor regrets； but a share in the life which
they had given her； the life which they had lived。
Rodney found her a moment later sitting beneath her
grandfather’s portrait。 She laid her hand on the seat next
her in a friendly way； and said：
“e and sit down； William。 How glad I was you were
here！ I felt myself getting ruder and ruder。”
“You are not good at hiding your feelings；” he returned
dryly。
“Oh； don’t scold me—I’ve had a horrid afternoon。” She
told him how she had taken the flowers to Mrs。 McCormick；
and how South Kensington impressed her as the preserve
of officers’ widows。 She described how the door had
opened； and what gloomy avenues of busts and palm
trees and umbrellas had been revealed to her。 She spoke
lightly； and succeeded in putting him at his ease。 Indeed；
he rapidly became too much at his ease to persist
in a condition of cheerful neutrality。 He felt his posure
slipping from him。 Katharine made it seem so natural
to ask her to help him； or advise him； to say straight
out what he had in his mind。 The letter from Cassandra
was heavy in his pocket。 There was also the letter to
Cassandra lying on the table in the next room。 The atmosphere
seemed charged with Cassandra。 But； unless
Katharine began the subject of her own accord； he could
not even hint—he must ignore the whole affair； it was
the part of a gentleman to preserve a bearing that was；
as far as he could make it； the bearing of an undoubting
lover。 At intervals he sighed deeply。 He talked rather more
quickly than usual about the possibility that some of the
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operas of Mozart would be played in the summer。 He had
received a notice； he said； and at once produced a pocketbook
stuffed with papers； and began shuffling them in
search。 He held a thick envelope between his finger and
thumb； as if the notice from the opera pany had bee
in some way inseparably attached to it。
“A letter from Cassandra？” said Katharine； in the easiest
voice in the world； looking over his shoulder。 “I’ve just
written to ask her to e here； only I forgot to post it。”
He handed her the envelope in silence。 She took it；
extracted the sheets； and read the letter through。
The reading seemed to Rodney to take an intolerably
long time。
“Yes；” she observed at length； “a very charming letter。”
Rodney’s face was half turned away； as if in bashfulness。
Her view of his profile almost moved her to laughter。
She glanced through the pages once more。
“I see no harm；” William blurted out； “in helping her—
with Greek； for example—if she really cares for that sort
of thing。”
“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t care；” said
Katharine； consulting the pages once more。 “In fact—
ah； here it is—’The Greek alphabet is absolutely fascinating。’
Obviously she does care。”
“Well； Greek may be rather a large order。 I was thinking
chiefly of English。 Her criticisms of my play； though they’re
too generous； evidently immature—she can’t be more than
twentytwo； I suppose？—they certainly show the sort of
thing one wants： real feeling for poetry； understanding；
not formed； of course； but it’s at the root of everything
after all。 There’d be no harm in lending her books？”
“No。 Certainly not。”
“But if it—hum—led to a correspondence？ I mean；
Katharine； I take it； without going into matters which
seem to me a little morbid； I mean；” he floundered； “you；
from your point of view； feel that there’s nothing disagreeable
to you in the notion？ If so； you’ve only to
speak； and I never think of it again。”
She was surprised by the violence of her desire that he
never should think of it again。 For an instant it seemed
to her impossible to surrender an intimacy； which might
not be the intimacy of love； but was certainly the inti
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macy of true friendship； to any woman in the world。
Cassandra would never understand him—she was not good
enough for him。 The letter seemed to her a letter of flattery—
a letter addressed to his weakness； which it made
her angry to think was known to another。 For he was not
weak； he had the rare strength of doing what he prom
ised—she had only to speak； and he would never think
of Cassandra again。
She paused。 Rodney guessed the reason。 He was amazed。
“She loves me；” he thought。 The woman he admired
more than any on