city round them； for her ears had not yet ceased to notice
the hum of distant wheels。
They went downstairs rather late； in spite of Katharine’s
extreme speed in getting ready。 To Cassandra’s ears the
buzz of voices inside the drawingroom was like the tuning
up of the instruments of the orchestra。 It seemed to
her that there were numbers of people in the room； and
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that they were strangers； and that they were beautiful
and dressed with the greatest distinction； although they
proved to be mostly her relations； and the distinction of
their clothing was confined； in the eyes of an impartial
observer； to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore。 But
they all rose simultaneously； which was by itself impressive；
and they all exclaimed； and shook hands； and she
was introduced to Mr。 Peyton； and the door sprang open；
and dinner was announced； and they filed off； William
Rodney offering her his slightly bent black arm； as she
had secretly hoped he would。 In short； had the scene
been looked at only through her eyes； it must have been
described as one of magical brilliancy。 The pattern of the
soupplates； the stiff folds of the napkins； which rose by
the side of each plate in the shape of arum lilies； the
long sticks of bread tied with pink ribbon； the silver dishes
and the seacolored champagne glasses； with the flakes
of gold congealed in their stems—all these details； together
with a curiously pervasive smell of kid gloves； contributed
to her exhilaration； which must be repressed；
however； because she was grown up； and the world held
no more for her to marvel at。
The world held no more for her to marvel at； it is true；
but it held other people； and each other person possessed
in Cassandra’s mind some fragment of what privately
she called “reality。” It was a gift that they would
impart if you asked them for it； and thus no dinnerparty
could possibly be dull； and little Mr。 Peyton on her right
and William Rodney on her left were in equal measure
endowed with the quality which seemed to her so unmistakable
and so precious that the way people neglected to
demand it was a constant source of surprise to her。 She
scarcely knew； indeed； whether she was talking to Mr。
Peyton or to William Rodney。 But to one who； by degrees；
assumed the shape of an elderly man with a mustache；
she described how she had arrived in London that very
afternoon； and how she had taken a cab and driven
through the streets。 Mr。 Peyton； an editor of fifty years；
bowed his bald head repeatedly； with apparent understanding。
At least； he understood that she was very young
and pretty； and saw that she was excited； though he could
not gather at once from her words or remember from his
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Virginia Woolf
own experience what there was to be excited about。 “Were
there any buds on the trees？” he asked。 “Which line did
she travel by？”
He was cut short in these amiable inquiries by her desire
to know whether he was one of those who read； or
one of those who look out of the window？ Mr。 Peyton was
by no means sure which he did。 He rather thought he did
both。 He was told that he had made a most dangerous
confession。 She could deduce his entire history from that
one fact。 He challenged her to proceed； and she proclaimed
him a Liberal Member of Parliament。
William； nominally engaged in a desultory conversation
with Aunt Eleanor； heard every word； and taking advantage
of the fact that elderly ladies have little continuity
of conversation； at least with those whom they
esteem for their youth and their sex； he asserted his presence
by a very nervous laugh。
Cassandra turned to him directly。 She was enchanted to
find that； instantly and with such ease； another of these
fascinating beings was offering untold wealth for her extraction。
“There’s no doubt what you do in a railway carriage；
William；” she said； making use in her pleasure of his first
name。 “You never once look out of the window； you read
all the time。”
“And what facts do you deduce from that？” Mr。 Peyton
asked。
“Oh； that he’s a poet； of course；” said Cassandra。 “But I
must confess that I knew that before； so it isn’t fair。 I’ve
got your manuscript with me；” she went on； disregarding
Mr。 Peyton in a shameless way。 “I’ve got all sorts of things
I want to ask you about it。”
William inclined his head and tried to conceal the pleasure
that her remark gave him。 But the pleasure was not
unalloyed。 However susceptible to flattery William might
be； he would never tolerate it from people who showed a
gross or emotional taste in literature； and if Cassandra
erred even slightly from what he considered essential in
this respect he would express his disfort by flinging
out his hands and wrinkling his forehead； he would find
no pleasure in her flattery after that。
“First of all；” she proceeded； “I want to know why you
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Night and Day
chose to write a play？”
“Ah！ You mean it’s not dramatic？”
“I mean that I don’t see what it would gain by being
acted。 But then does Shakespeare gain？ Henry and I are
always arguing about Shakespeare。 I’m certain he’s wrong；
but I can’t prove it because I’ve only seen Shakespeare
acted once in Lincoln。 But I’m quite positive；” she insisted；
“that Shakespeare wrote for the stage。”
“You’re perfectly right；” Rodney exclaimed。 “I was hoping
you were on that side。 Henry’s wrong—entirely wrong。
Of course； I’ve failed； as all the moderns fail。 Dear； dear；
I wish I’d consulted you before。”
From this point they proceeded to go over； as far as
memory served them； the different aspects of Rodney’s
drama。 She said nothing that jarred upon him； and untrained
daring had the power to stimulate experience to
such an extent that Rodney was frequently seen to hold
his fork suspended before him； while he debated the first
principles of the art。 Mrs。 Hilbery thought to herself that
she had never seen him to such advantage； yes； he was
somehow different； he reminded her of some one who
was dead； some one who was distinguished—she had
forgotten his name。
Cassandra’s voice rose high in its excitement。
“You’ve not read ‘The Idiot’！” she exclaimed。
“I’ve read ‘War and Peace’；” William replied； a little testily。
“‘War and Peace’！” she echoed； in a tone of derision。
“I confess I don’t understand the Russians。”
“Shake hands！ Shake hands！” boomed Uncle Aubrey from
across the table。 “Neither do I。 And I hazard the opinion
that they don’t themselves。”
The old gentleman had ruled a large part of the Indian
Empire； but he was in the habit of saying that he had
rather have written the works of Dickens。 The table now
took possession of a subject much to its liking。 Aunt
Eleanor showed premonitory signs of pronouncing an
opinion。 Although she had blunted her taste upon some
form of philanthropy for twentyfive years； she had a fine
natural instinct for an upstart or a pretender； and knew
to a hairbreadth what literatur