flowers； breathed in their sweetness； and； humming a
little song about a miller’s daughter； left the room。
The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that
afternoon was not apparently receiving his full attention；
and yet the affairs of the late John Leake of Dublin
were sufficiently confused to need all the care that a
solicitor could bestow upon them； if the widow Leake
and the five Leake children of tender age were to receive
any pittance at all。 But the appeal to Ralph’s humanity
had little chance of being heard today； he was no longer
a model of concentration。 The partition so carefully erected
between the different sections of his life had been broken
down； with the result that though his eyes were fixed
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upon the last Will and Testament； he saw through the
page a certain drawingroom in Cheyne Walk。
He tried every device that had proved effective in the
past for keeping up the partitions of the mind； until he
could decently go home； but a little to his alarm he found
himself assailed so persistently； as if from outside； by
Katharine； that he launched forth desperately into an
imaginary interview with her。 She obliterated a bookcase
full of law reports； and the corners and lines of the room
underwent a curious softening of outline like that which
sometimes makes a room unfamiliar at the moment of
waking from sleep。 By degrees； a pulse or stress began to
beat at regular intervals in his mind； heaping his thoughts
into waves to which words fitted themselves； and without
much consciousness of what he was doing； he began
to write on a sheet of draft paper what had the appearance
of a poem lacking several words in each line。 Not
many lines had been set down； however； before he threw
away his pen as violently as if that were responsible for
his misdeeds； and tore the paper into many separate
pieces。 This was a sign that Katharine had asserted her
self and put to him a remark that could not be met poetically。
Her remark was entirely destructive of poetry； since
it was to the effect that poetry had nothing whatever to
do with her； all her friends spent their lives in making up
phrases； she said； all his feeling was an illusion； and next
moment； as if to taunt him with his impotence； she had
sunk into one of those dreamy states which took no account
whatever of his existence。 Ralph was roused by his
passionate attempts to attract her attention to the fact
that he was standing in the middle of his little private
room in Lincoln’s Inn Fields at a considerable distance
from Chelsea。 The physical distance increased his desperation。
He began pacing in circles until the process
sickened him； and then took a sheet of paper for the
position of a letter which； he vowed before he began
it； should be sent that same evening。
It was a difficult matter to put into words； poetry would
have done it better justice； but he must abstain from
poetry。 In an infinite number of halfobliterated scratches
he tried to convey to her the possibility that although
human beings are woefully illadapted for munica
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Night and Day
tion； still； such munion is the best we know； moreover；
they make it possible for each to have access to
another world independent of personal affairs； a world of
law； of philosophy； or more strangely a world such as he
had had a glimpse of the other evening when together
they seemed to be sharing something； creating something；
an ideal—a vision flung out in advance of our
actual circumstances。 If this golden rim were quenched；
if life were no longer circled by an illusion （but was it an
illusion after all？）； then it would be too dismal an affair
to carry to an end； so he wrote with a sudden spurt of
conviction which made clear way for a space and left at
least one sentence standing whole。 Making every allowance
for other desires； on the whole this conclusion appeared
to him to justify their relationship。 But the conclusion
was mystical； it plunged him into thought。 The
difficulty with which even this amount was written； the
inadequacy of the words； and the need of writing under
them and over them others which； after all； did no better；
led him to leave off before he was at ail satisfied
with his production； and unable to resist the conviction
that such rambling would never be fit for Katharine’s eye。
He felt himself more cut off from her than ever。 In idleness；
and because he could do nothing further with words；
he began to draw little figures in the blank spaces； heads
meant to resemble her head； blots fringed with flames
meant to represent—perhaps the entire universe。 From
this occupation he was roused by the message that a
lady wished to speak to him。 He had scarcely time to run
his hands through his hair in order to look as much like a
solicitor as possible； and to cram his papers into his
pocket； already overe with shame that another eye
should behold them； when he realized that his preparations
were needless。 The lady was Mrs。 Hilbery。
“I hope you’re not disposing of somebody’s fortune in a
hurry；” she remarked； gazing at the documents on his
table； “or cutting off an entail at one blow； because I
want to ask you to do me a favor。 And Anderson won’t
keep his horse waiting。 （Anderson is a perfect tyrant； but
he drove my dear father to the Abbey the day they buried
him。） I made bold to e to you； Mr。 Denham； not exactly
in search of legal assistance （though I don’t know
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Virginia Woolf
who I’d rather e to； if I were in trouble）； but in order
to ask your help in settling some tiresome little domestic
affairs that have arisen in my absence。 I’ve been to
StratfordonAvon （I must tell you all about that one of
these days）； and there I got a letter from my sisterinlaw；
a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other
people’s children because she’s got none of her own。 （We’re
dreadfully afraid that she’s going to lose the sight of one
of her eyes； and I always feel that our physical ailments
are so apt to turn into mental ailments。 I think Matthew
Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron。）
But that’s neither here nor there。”
The effect of these parentheses； whether they were introduced
for that purpose or represented a natural instinct
on Mrs。 Hilbery’s part to embellish the bareness of
her discourse； gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed
all the facts of their situation and was e； somehow；
in the capacity of ambassador。
“I didn’t e here to talk about Lord Byron；” Mrs。
Hilbery continued； with a little laugh； “though I know
that both you and Katharine； unlike other young people
of your generation； still find him worth reading。” She
paused。 “I’m so glad you’ve made Katharine read poetry；
Mr。 Denham！” she exclaimed； “and feel poetry； and look
poetry！ She can’t talk it yet； but she will—oh； she will！”
Ralph； whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost
refused to articulate； somehow contrived to say that there
were moments when he felt hopeless； utter