clerks had broken down； and might have to be away for
months； six months even； in which case they would have
to think over their position。 He said it in a way which
struck her； at last； as oddly casual。 She looked at him。
There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her。
Was she well dressed？ She thought sufficiently so。 Perhaps
she was late？ She looked for a clock。
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Night and Day
“It’s a good thing we didn’t take the house then；” she
repeated thoughtfully。
“It’ll mean； too； I’m afraid； that I shan’t be as free for
a considerable time as I have been；” he continued。 She
had time to reflect that she gained something by all this；
though it was too soon to determine what。 But the light
which had been burning with such intensity as she came
along was suddenly overclouded； as much by his manner
as by his news。 She had been prepared to meet opposition；
which is simple to encounter pared with—she
did not know what it was that she had to encounter。 The
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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Virginia Woolf
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。
245
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
t