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 pavement。 But she sat perfectly still；
and when the knock sounded； she got up directly and
opened the door without hesitation。 She saw a tall figure
outside； with something ominous to her eyes in the look
of it。
“What do you want？” she said； not recognizing the face
in the fitful light of the staircase。
“Mary？ I’m Katharine Hilbery！”
Mary’s selfpossession returned almost excessively； and
her wele was decidedly cold； as if she must recoup
herself for this ridiculous waste of emotion。 She moved
her greenshaded lamp to another table； and covered
“Some Aspects of the Democratic State” with a sheet of
blottingpaper。
“Why can’t they leave me alone？” she thought bitterly；
connecting Katharine and Ralph in a conspiracy to take
from her even this hour of solitary study； even this poor
little defence against the world。 And； as she smoothed
down the sheet of blottingpaper over the manuscript；
she braced herself to resist Katharine； whose presence
struck her； not merely by its force； as usual； but as something
in the nature of a menace。
“You’re working？” said Katharine； with hesitation； perceiving
that she was not wele。
“Nothing that matters；” Mary replied； drawing forward
the best of the chairs and poking the fire。
“I didn’t know you had to work after you had left the
office；” said Katharine； in a tone which gave the impression
that she was thinking of something else； as was；
indeed； the case。
She had been paying calls with her mother； and in between
the calls Mrs。 Hilbery had rushed into shops and
bought pillowcases and blottingbooks on no percep
231
Night and Day
tible method for the furnishing of Katharine’s house。
Katharine had a sense of impedimenta accumulating on
all sides of her。 She had left her at length； and had e
on to keep an engagement to dine with Rodney at his
rooms。 But she did not mean to get to him before seven
o’clock； and so had plenty of time to walk all the way
from Bond Street to the Temple if she wished it。 The flow
of faces streaming on either side of her had hypnotized
her into a mood of profound despondency； to which her
expectation of an evening alone with Rodney contributed。
They were very good friends again； better friends；
they both said； than ever before。 So far as she was concerned
this was true。 There were many more things in
him than she had guessed until emotion brought them
forth—strength； affection； sympathy。 And she thought
of them and looked at the faces passing； and thought
how much alike they were； and how distant； nobody feeling
anything as she felt nothing； and distance； she
thought； lay inevitably between the closest； and their
intimacy was the worst presence of all。 For； “Oh dear；”
she thought； looking into a tobacconist’s window； “I don’t
care for any of them； and I don’t care for William； and
people say this is the thing that matters most； and I
can’t see what they mean by it。”
She looked desperately at the smoothbowled pipes；
and wondered—should she walk on by the Strand or by
the Embankment？ It was not a simple question； for it
concerned not different streets so much as different
streams of thought。 If she went by the Strand she would
force herself to think out the problem of the future； or
some mathematical problem； if she went by the river she
would certainly begin to think about things that didn’t
exist—the forest； the ocean beach； the leafy solitudes；
the magnanimous hero。 No； no； no！ A thousand times
no！—it wouldn’t do； there was something repulsive in
such thoughts at present； she must take something else；
she was out of that mood at present。 And then she thought
of Mary； the thought gave her confidence； even pleasure
of a sad sort； as if the triumph of Ralph and Mary proved
that the fault of her failure lay with herself and not with
life。 An indistinct idea that the sight of Mary might be of
help； bined with her natural trust in her； suggested a
232
Virginia Woolf
visit； for； surely； her liking was of a kind that implied
liking upon Mary’s side also。 After a moment’s hesitation
she decided； although she seldom acted upon impulse； to
act upon this one； and turned down a side street and
found Mary’s door。 But her reception was not encouraging；
clearly Mary didn’t want to see her； had no help to
impart； and the halfformed desire to confide in her was
quenched immediately。 She was slightly amused at her
own delusion； looked rather absentminded； and swung
her gloves to and fro； as if doling out the few minutes
accurately before she could say goodby。
Those few minutes might very well be spent in asking
for information as to the exact position of the Suffrage
Bill； or in expounding her own very sensible view of the
situation。 But there was a tone in her voice； or a shade in
her opinions； or a swing of her gloves which served to
irritate Mary Datchet； whose manner became increasingly
direct； abrupt； and even antagonistic。 She became conscious
of a wish to make Katharine realize the importance
of this work； which she discussed so coolly； as
though she； too； had sacrificed what Mary herself had
sacrificed。 The swinging of the gloves ceased； and
Katharine； after ten minutes； began to make movements
preliminary to departure。 At the sight of this； Mary was
aware—she was abnormally aware of things tonight—of
another very strong desire； Katharine was not to be allowed
to go； to disappear into the free； happy world of
irresponsible individuals。 She must be made to realize—
to feel。
“I don’t quite see；” she said； as if Katharine had challenged
her explicitly； “how； things being as they are； any
one can help trying； at least； to do something。”
“No。 But how are things？”
Mary pressed her lips； and smiled ironically； she had
Katharine at her mercy； she could； if she liked； discharge
upon her head wagonloads of revolting proof of the state
of things ignored by the casual； the amateur； the looker
on； the cynical observer of life at a distance。 And yet she
hesitated。 As usual； when she found herself in talk with
Katharine； she began to feel rapid alternations of opinion
about her； arrows of sensation striking strangely
through the envelope of personality； which shelters us so
233
Night and Day
conveniently from our fellows。 What an egoist； how aloof
she was！ And yet； not in her words； perhaps； but in her
voice； in her face； in her attitude； there were signs of a
soft brooding spirit； of a sensibility unblunted and profound；
playing over her thoughts and deeds； and investing
her manner with an habitual gentleness。 The arguments
and phrases of Mr。 Clacton fell flat against such
armor。
“You’ll be married； and you’ll have other things to think
of；” she said inconsequently； and with an accent of condescension。
She was not going to make Katharine understand
in a second； as she would； all she hersel