taking his place at the table and turning to Mary
as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations；
“is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual
grounds。 A mistake； in my opinion。 The British public
likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence—a pill of
reason in its pudding of sentiment；” he said； sharpening
the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision。
His eyes rested； with something of the vanity of an
author； upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her
hand。 She rose； took her seat at the head of the table；
poured out tea for her colleagues； and gave her opinion
upon the leaflet。 So she had poured out tea； so she had
criticized Mr。 Clacton’s leaflets a hundred times already；
but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a
different spirit； she had enlisted in the army； and was a
volunteer no longer。 She had renounced something and
was now—how could she express it？；—not quite “in the
running” for life。 She had always known that Mr。 Clacton
and Mrs。 Seal were not in the running； and across the
gulf that separated them she had seen them in the guise
of shadow people； flitting in and out of the ranks of the
living—eccentrics； undeveloped human beings； from
whose substance some essential part had been cut away。
All this had never struck her so clearly as it did this afternoon；
when she felt that her lot was cast with them for
ever。 One view of the world plunged in darkness； so a
more volatile temperament might have argued after a
season of despair； let the world turn again and show another；
more splendid； perhaps。 No； Mary thought； with
unflinching loyalty to what appeared to her to be the
true view； having lost what is best； I do not mean to
pretend that any other view does instead。 Whatever happens；
I mean to have no presences in my life。 Her very
words had a sort of distinctness which is sometimes pro
228
Virginia Woolf
duced by sharp； bodily pain。 To Mrs。 Seal’s secret jubilation
the rule which forbade discussion of shop at teatime
was overlooked。 Mary and Mr。 Clacton argued with a
cogency and a ferocity which made the little woman feel
that something very important—she hardly knew what—
was taking place。 She became much excited； one crucifix
became entangled with another； and she dug a considerable
hole in the table with the point of her pencil in
order to emphasize the most striking heads of the discourse；
and how any bination of Cabi Ministers
could resist such discourse she really did not know。
She could hardly bring herself to remember her own
private instrument of justice—the typewriter。 The telephone
bell rang； and as she hurried off to answer a voice
which always seemed a proof of importance by itself； she
felt that it was at this exact spot on the surface of the
globe that all the subterranean wires of thought and
progress came together。 When she returned； with a message
from the printer； she found that Mary was putting
on her hat firmly； there was something imperious and
dominating in her attitude altogether。
“Look； Sally；” she said； “these letters want copying。
These I’ve not looked at。 The question of the new census
will have to be gone into carefully。 But I’m going home
now。 Good night； Mr。 Clacton； good night； Sally。”
“We are very fortunate in our secretary； Mr。 Clacton；”
said Mrs。 Seal； pausing with her hand on the papers； as
the door shut behind Mary。 Mr。 Clacton himself had been
vaguely impressed by something in Mary’s behavior towards
him。 He envisaged a time even when it would bee
necessary to tell her that there could not be two
masters in one office—but she was certainly able； very
able； and in touch with a group of very clever young
men。 No doubt they had suggested to her some of her
new ideas。
He signified his assent to Mrs。 Seal’s remark； but observed；
with a glance at the clock； which showed only
half an hour past five：
“If she takes the work seriously； Mrs。 Seal—but that’s
just what some of your clever young ladies don’t do。” So
saying he returned to his room； and Mrs。 Seal； after a
moment’s hesitation； hurried back to her labors。
229
Night and Day
CHAPTER XXI
Mary walked to the nearest station and reached home in
an incredibly short space of time； just so much； indeed；
as was needed for the intelligent understanding of the
news of the world as the “Westminster Gazette” reported
it。 Within a few minutes of opening her door； she was in
trim for a hard evening’s work。 She unlocked a drawer
and took out a manuscript； which consisted of a very few
pages； entitled； in a forcible hand； “Some Aspects of the
Democratic State。” The aspects dwindled out in a cries
cross of blotted lines in the very middle of a sentence；
and suggested that the author had been interrupted； or
convinced of the futility of proceeding； with her pen in
the air… 。 Oh； yes； Ralph had e in at that point。 She
scored that sheet very effectively； and； choosing a fresh
one； began at a great rate with a generalization upon the
structure of human society； which was a good deal bolder
than her custom。 Ralph had told her once that she couldn’t
write English； which accounted for those frequent blots
and insertions； but she put all that behind her； and drove
ahead with such words as came her way； until she had
acplished half a page of generalization and might
legitimately draw breath。 Directly her hand stopped her
brain stopped too； and she began to listen。 A paperboy
shouted down the street； an omnibus ceased and lurched
on again with the heave of duty once more shouldered；
the dullness of the sounds suggested that a fog had risen
since her return； if； indeed； a fog has power to deaden
sound； of which fact； she could not be sure at the present
moment。 It was the sort of fact Ralph Denham knew。 At
any rate； it was no concern of hers； and she was about to
dip a pen when her ear was caught by the sound of a step
upon the stone staircase。 She followed it past Mr。 Chippen’s
chambers； past Mr。 Gibson’s； past Mr。 Turner’s； after which
it became her sound。 A postman； a washerwoman； a circular；
a bill—she presented herself with each of these
perfectly natural possibilities； but； to her surprise； her
mind rejected each one of them impatiently； even apprehensively。
The step became slow； as it was apt to do at
the end of the steep climb； and Mary； listening for the
regular sound； was filled with an intolerable nervous
230
Virginia Woolf
ness。 Leaning against the table； she felt the knock of her
heart push her body perceptibly backwards and forwards—
a state of nerves astonishing and reprehensible in a stable
woman。 Grotesque fancies took shape。 Alone； at the top
of the house； an unknown person approaching nearer and
nearer—how could she escape？ There was no way of escape。
She did not even know whether that oblong mark
on the ceiling was a trapdoor to the roof or not。 And if
she got on to the roof—well； there was a drop of sixty
feet or so on to the paveme