upon Mary as upon vistas of unresponding blankness；
Katharine addressed herself also not so much to Mary as
to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared to mock
her from every quarter of her survey。
After waiting a little time Mary remarked indifferently：
“I really don’t know。” Slackly lying back in her armchair；
she watched the little flames beginning to creep
among the coals indifferently； as if they； too； were very
distant and indifferent。
Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose。
“Possibly he may e here；” Mary continued； without
altering the abstract tone of her voice。 “It would be worth
your while to wait if you want to see him tonight。” She
bent forward and touched the wood； so that the flames
slipped in between the interstices of the coal。
Katharine reflected。 “I’ll wait half an hour；” she said。
Mary rose； went to the table； spread out her papers
under the greenshaded lamp and； with an action that
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was being a habit； twisted a lock of hair round and
round in her fingers。 Once she looked unperceived at her
visitor； who never moved； who sat so still； with eyes so
intent； that you could almost fancy that she was watching
something； some face that never looked up at her。
Mary found herself unable to go on writing。 She turned
her eyes away； but only to be aware of the presence of
what Katharine looked at。 There were ghosts in the room；
and one； strangely and sadly； was the ghost of herself。
The minutes went by。
“What would be the time now？” said Katharine at last。
The halfhour was not quite spent。
“I’m going to get dinner ready；” said Mary； rising from
her table。
“Then I’ll go；” said Katharine。
“Why don’t you stay？ Where are you going？”
Katharine looked round the room； conveying her uncertainty
in her glance。
“Perhaps I might find him；” she mused。
“But why should it matter？ You’ll see him another day。”
Mary spoke； and intended to speak； cruelly enough。
“I was wrong to e here；” Katharine replied。
Their eyes met with antagonism； and neither flinched。
“You had a perfect right to e here；” Mary answered。
A loud knocking at the door interrupted them。 Mary
went to open it； and returning with some note or parcel；
Katharine looked away so that Mary might not read her
disappointment。
“Of course you had a right to e；” Mary repeated；
laying the note upon the table。
“No；” said Katharine。 “Except that when one’s desperate
one has a sort of right。 I am desperate。 How do I
know what’s happening to him now？ He may do anything。
He may wander about the streets all night。 Anything may
happen to him。”
She spoke with a selfabandonment that Mary had never
seen in her。
“You know you exaggerate； you’re talking nonsense；”
she said roughly。
“Mary； I must talk—I must tell you—”
“You needn’t tell me anything；” Mary interrupted her。
“Can’t I see for myself？”
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Virginia Woolf
“No； no；” Katharine exclaimed。 “It’s not that—”
Her look； passing beyond Mary； beyond the verge of the
room and out beyond any words that came her way； wildly
and passionately； convinced Mary that she； at any rate；
could not follow such a glance to its end。 She was baffled；
she tried to think herself back again into the height of
her love for Ralph。 Pressing her fingers upon her eyelids；
she murmured：
“You forget that I loved him too。 I thought I knew him。
I did know him。”
And yet； what had she known？ She could not remember
it any more。 She pressed her eyeballs until they struck
stars and suns into her darkness。 She convinced herself
that she was stirring among ashes。 She desisted。 She was
astonished at her discovery。 She did not love Ralph any
more。 She looked back dazed into the room； and her eyes
rested upon the table with its lamplit papers。 The steady
radiance seemed for a second to have its counterpart
within her； she shut her eyes； she opened them and looked
at the lamp again； another love burnt in the place of the
old one； or so； in a momentary glance of amazement； she
guessed before the revelation was over and the old surroundings
asserted themselves。 She leant in silence against
the mantelpiece。
“There are different ways of loving；” she murmured； half
to herself； at length。
Katharine made no reply and seemed unaware of her
words。 She seemed absorbed in her own thoughts。
“Perhaps he’s waiting in the street again tonight；” she
exclaimed。 “I’ll go now。 I might find him。”
“It’s far more likely that he’ll e here；” said Mary；
and Katharine； after considering for a moment； said：
“I’ll wait another halfhour。”
She sank down into her chair again； and took up the
same position which Mary had pared to the position
of one watching an unseeing face。 She watched； indeed；
not a face； but a procession； not of people； but of life
itself： the good and bad； the meaning； the past； the
present； and the future。 All this seemed apparent to her；
and she was not ashamed of her extravagance so much as
exalted to one of the pinnacles of existence； where it
behoved the world to do her homage。 No one but she
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Night and Day
herself knew what it meant to miss Ralph Denham on
that particular night； into this inadequate event crowded
feelings that the great crises of life might have failed to
call forth。 She had missed him； and knew the bitterness
of all failure； she desired him； and knew the torment of
all passion。 It did not matter what trivial accidents led to
this culmination。 Nor did she care how extravagant she
appeared； nor how openly she showed her feelings。
When the dinner was ready Mary told her to e； and
she came submissively； as if she let Mary direct her movements
for her。 They ate and drank together almost in
silence； and when Mary told her to eat more； she ate
more； when she was told to drink wine； she drank it。
Nevertheless； beneath this superficial obedience； Mary
knew that she was following her own thoughts unhindered。
She was not inattentive so much as remote； she
looked at once so unseeing and so intent upon some
vision of her own that Mary gradually felt more than protective—
she became actually alarmed at the prospect of
some collision between Katharine and the forces of the
outside world。 Directly they had done； Katharine an
nounced her intention of going。
“But where are you going to？” Mary asked； desiring
vaguely to hinder her。
“Oh； I’m going home—no； to Highgate perhaps。”
Mary saw that it would be useless to try to stop her。 All
she could do was to insist upon ing too； but she met
with no opposition； Katharine seemed indifferent to her
presence。 In a few minutes they were walking along the
Strand。 They walked so rapidly that Mary was deluded
into the belief that Katharine knew where she was going。
She herself was not attentive。 She was glad of the movement
along lamplit streets in the open air。 She was fingering；
painfully and with fear； yet with strange hope；
too； the discovery which she had stumbled upon unexpectedly
that night。 She was free once more at the cost
of a gift； the best； perhaps； that she could offer； but she
was； thank Heaven； in love no longer。 She was tempted
to spend the first instalment of her freedom in some dissipation；
in the pit of the Coliseum； for example； since
they were now passing the door。 Why not go in and celebrate
her independence of the tyranny of love？ Or； per
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Virginia Woolf
haps； the top of an omnibus bound for some remote place
such as Camberwell； or Sidcup； or the Welsh Harp would
suit her better。 She noticed these names painted on little
boards for the first time for weeks。 Or should she return
to her room； and spend the night working out the details
of a very enlightened and ingenious scheme？ Of all possibilities
this appealed to her most； and brought to mind
the fire； the lamplight； the steady glow which had seemed
lit in the place where a more passionate flame had once
burnt。
Now Katharine stopped； and Mary woke to the fact that
instead of having a goal she had evidently none。 She
paused at the edge of the crossing； and looked this way
and that； and finally made as if in the direction of
Haverstock Hill。
“Look here—where are you going？” Mary cried； catching
her by the hand。 “We must take that cab and go home。”
She hailed a cab and insisted that Katharine should get in；
while she directed the driver to take them to Cheyne Walk。
Katharine submitted。 “Very well；” she said。 “We may as
well go there as anywhere else。”
A gloom seemed to have fallen on her。 She lay back in
her corner； silent and apparently exhausted。 Mary； in spite
of her own preoccupation； was struck by her pallor and
her attitude of dejection。
“I’m sure we shall find him；” she said more gently than
she had yet spoken。
“It may be too late；” Katharine replied。 Without understanding
her； Mary began to pity her for what she was
suffering。
“Nonsense；” she said； taking her hand and rubbing it。
“If we don’t find him there we shall find him somewhere
else。”
“But suppose he’s walking about the streets—for hours
and hours？”
She leant forward and looked out of the window。
“He may refuse ever to speak to me again；” she said in
a low voice； almost to herself。
The exaggeration was so immense that Mary did not
attempt to cope with it； save by keeping hold of
Katharine’s wrist。 She half expected that Katharine might
open the door suddenly and jump out。 Perhaps Katharine
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perceived the purpose with which her hand was held。
“Don’t be frightened；” she said； with a little laugh。 “I’m
not going to jump out of the cab。 It wouldn’t do much
good after all。”
Upon this； Mary ostentatiously withdrew her hand。
“I ought to have apologized；” Katharine continued； with
an effort； “for bringing you into all this business； I haven’t
told you half； either。 I’m no longer engaged to William
Rodney。 He is to marr