She was not going to make Katharine understand
in a second； as she would； all she herself had learnt
at the cost of such pain。 No。 Katharine was to be happy；
Katharine was to be ignorant； Mary was to keep this knowledge
of the impersonal life for herself。 The thought of
her morning’s renunciation stung her conscience； and she
tried to expand once more into that impersonal condition
which was so lofty and so painless。 She must check
this desire to be an individual again； whose wishes were
in conflict with those of other people。 She repented of
her bitterness。
Katharine now renewed her signs of leavetaking； she
had drawn on one of her gloves； and looked about her as
if in search of some trivial saying to end with。 Wasn’t
there some picture； or clock； or chest of drawers which
might be singled out for notice？ something peaceable
and friendly to end the unfortable interview？ The
greenshaded lamp burnt in the corner； and illumined
books and pens and blottingpaper。 The whole aspect of
the place started another train of thought and struck her
as enviably free； in such a room one could work—one
could have a life of one’s own。
“I think you’re very lucky；” she observed。 “I envy you；
living alone and having your own things”—and engaged
in this exalted way； which had no recognition or engage
mentring； she added in her own mind。
Mary’s lips parted slightly。 She could not conceive in what
respects Katharine； who spoke sincerely； could envy her。
“I don’t think you’ve got any reason to envy me；” she
said。
“Perhaps one always envies other people；” Katharine
observed vaguely。
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“Well； but you’ve got everything that any one can want。”
Katharine remained silent。 She gazed into the fire quietly；
and without a trace of selfconsciousness。 The hostility
which she had divined in Mary’s tone had pletely
disappeared； and she forgot that she had been upon the
point of going。
“Well； I suppose I have；” she said at length。 “And yet I
sometimes think—” She paused； she did not know how
to express what she meant。
“It came over me in the Tube the other day；” she resumed；
with a smile； “what is it that makes these people
go one way rather than the other？ It’s not love； it’s not
reason； I think it must be some idea。 Perhaps； Mary； our
affections are the shadow of an idea。 Perhaps there isn’t
any such thing as affection in itself… 。” She spoke half
mockingly； asking her question； which she scarcely troubled
to frame； not of Mary； or of any one in particular。
But the words seemed to Mary Datchet shallow； supercilious；
coldblooded； and cynical all in one。 All her natural
instincts were roused in revolt against them。
“I’m the opposite way of thinking； you see；” she said。
“Yes； I know you are；” Katharine replied； looking at her
as if now she were about； perhaps； to explain something
very important。
Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good
faith that lay behind Katharine’s words。
“I think affection is the only reality；” she said。
“Yes；” said Katharine； almost sadly。 She understood that
Mary was thinking of Ralph； and she felt it impossible to
press her to reveal more of this exalted condition； she
could only respect the fact that； in some few cases； life
arranged itself thus satisfactorily and pass on。 She rose
to her feet accordingly。 But Mary exclaimed； with unmistakable
earnestness； that she must not go； that they met
so seldom； that she wanted to talk to her so much… 。
Katharine was surprised at the earnestness with which
she spoke。 It seemed to her that there could be no indiscretion
in mentioning Ralph by name。
Seating herself “for ten minutes；” she said： “By the
way； Mr。 Denham told me he was going to give up the Bar
and live in the country。 Has he gone？ He was beginning
to tell me about it； when we were interrupted。”
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Night and Day
“He thinks of it；” said Mary briefly。 The color at once
came to her face。
“It would be a very good plan；” said Katharine in her
decided way。
“You think so？”
“Yes； because he would do something worth while； he
would write a book。 My father always says that he’s the
most remarkable of the young men who write for him。”
Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between
the bars with a poker。 Katharine’s mention of Ralph
had roused within her an almost irresistible desire to
explain to her the true state of the case between herself
and Ralph。 She knew； from the tone of her voice； that in
speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary’s secrets；
or to insinuate any of her own。 Moreover； she liked
Katharine； she trusted her； she felt a respect for her。 The
first step of confidence was paratively simple； but a
further confidence had revealed itself； as Katharine spoke；
which was not so simple； and yet it impressed itself upon
her as a necessity； she must tell Katharine what it was
clear that she had no conception of—she must tell
Katharine that Ralph was in love with her。
“I don’t know what he means to do；” she said hurriedly；
seeking time against the pressure of her own conviction。
“I’ve not seen him since Christmas。”
Katharine reflected that this was odd； perhaps； after
all； she had misunderstood the position。 She was in the
habit of assuming； however； that she was rather unobservant
of the finer shades of feeling； and she noted her
present failure as another proof that she was a practical；
abstractminded person； better fitted to deal with figures
than with the feelings of men and women。 Anyhow；
William Rodney would say so。
“And now—” she said。
“Oh； please stay！” Mary exclaimed； putting out her hand
to stop her。 Directly Katharine moved she felt； inarticulately
and violently； that she could not bear to let her go。
If Katharine went； her only chance of speaking was lost；
her only chance of saying something tremendously important
was lost。 Half a dozen words were sufficient to
wake Katharine’s attention； and put flight and further
silence beyond her power。 But although the words came
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to her lips； her throat closed upon them and drove them
back。 After all； she considered； why should she speak？
Because it is right； her instinct told her； right to expose
oneself without reservations to other human beings。 She
flinched from the thought。 It asked too much of one already
stripped bare。 Something she must keep of her own。
But if she did keep something of her own？ Immediately
she figured an immured life； continuing for an immense
period； the same feelings living for ever； neither dwindling
nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall。
The imagination of this loneliness frightened her； and
yet to speak—to lose her loneliness； for it had already
bee dear to her； was beyond her power。
Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine’s skirt；
and； fingering a line of fur； she bent her head as if to
examine it。
“I like this fur；” she said； “I like your clothes。 And you