Chapter XXVI

by Virginia Woolf

　　Although the old coaches, with their gay panels and the guard's horn,and the humors of the box and the vicissitudes of the road, have longmoldered into dust so far as they were matter, and are preserved inthe printed pages of our novelists so far as they partook of thespirit, a journey to London by express train can still be a verypleasant and romantic adventure. Cassandra Otway, at the age oftwenty-two, could imagine few things more pleasant. Satiated withmonths of green fields as she was, the first row of artisans' villason the outskirts of London seemed to have something serious about it,which positively increased the importance of every person in therailway carriage, and even, to her impressionable mind, quickened thespeed of the train and gave a note of stern authority to the shriek ofthe engine-whistle. They were bound for London; they must haveprecedence of all traffic not similarly destined. A different demeanorwas necessary directly one stepped out upon Liverpool Street platform,and became one of those preoccupied and hasty citizens for whose needsinnumerable taxi-cabs, motor-omnibuses, and underground railways werein waiting. She did her best to look dignified and preoccupied too,but as the cab carried her away, with a determination which alarmedher a little, she became more and more forgetful of her station as acitizen of London, and turned her head from one window to another,picking up eagerly a building on this side or a street scene on thatto feed her intense curiosity. And yet, while the drive lasted no onewas real, nothing was ordinary; the crowds, the Government buildings,the tide of men and women washing the base of the great glass windows,were all generalized, and affected her as if she saw them on thestage.All these feelings were sustained and partly inspired by the fact thather journey took her straight to the center of her most romanticworld. A thousand times in the midst of her pastoral landscape herthoughts took this precise road, were admitted to the house inChelsea, and went directly upstairs to Katharine's room, where,invisible themselves, they had the better chance of feasting upon theprivacy of the room's adorable and mysterious mistress. Cassandraadored her cousin; the adoration might have been foolish, but wassaved from that excess and lent an engaging charm by the volatilenature of Cassandra's temperament. She had adored a great many thingsand people in the course of twenty-two years; she had been alternatelythe pride and the desperation of her teachers. She had worshippedarchitecture and music, natural history and humanity, literature andart, but always at the height of her enthusiasm, which was accompaniedby a brilliant degree of accomplishment, she changed her mind andbought, surreptitiously, another grammar. The terrible results whichgovernesses had predicted from such mental dissipation were certainlyapparent now that Cassandra was twenty-two, and had never passed anexamination, and daily showed herself less and less capable of passingone. The more serious prediction that she could never possibly earnher living was also verified. But from all these short strands ofdifferent accomplishments Cassandra wove for herself an attitude, acast of mind, which, if useless, was found by some people to have thenot despicable virtues of vivacity and freshness. Katharine, forexample, thought her a most charming companion. The cousins seemed toassemble between them a great range of qualities which are never foundunited in one person and seldom in half a dozen people. WhereKatharine was simple, Cassandra was complex; where Katharine was solidand direct, Cassandra was vague and evasive. In short, theyrepresented very well the manly and the womanly sides of the femininenature, and, for foundation, there was the profound unity of commonblood between them. If Cassandra adored Katharine she was incapable ofadoring any one without refreshing her spirit with frequent draughtsof raillery and criticism, and Katharine enjoyed her laughter at leastas much as her respect.Respect was certainly uppermost in Cassandra's mind at the presentmoment. Katharine's engagement had appealed to her imagination as thefirst engagement in a circle of contemporaries is apt to appeal to theimaginations of the others; it was solemn, beautiful, and mysterious;it gave both parties the important air of those who have beeninitiated into some rite which is still concealed from the rest of thegroup. For Katharine's sake Cassandra thought William a mostdistinguished and interesting character, and welcomed first hisconversation and then his manuscript as the marks of a friendshipwhich it flattered and delighted her to inspire.Katharine was still out when she arrived at Cheyne Walk. Aftergreeting her uncle and aunt and receiving, as usual, a present of twosovereigns for "cab fares and dissipation" from Uncle Trevor, whosefavorite niece she was, she changed her dress and wandered intoKatharine's room to await her. What a great looking-glass Katharinehad, she thought, and how mature all the arrangements upon thedressing-table were compared to what she was used to at home. Glancinground, she thought that the bills stuck upon a skewer and stood forornament upon the mantelpiece were astonishingly like Katharine, Therewasn't a photograph of William anywhere to be seen. The room, with itscombination of luxury and bareness, its silk dressing-gowns andcrimson slippers, its shabby carpet and bare walls, had a powerful airof Katharine herself; she stood in the middle of the room and enjoyedthe sensation; and then, with a desire to finger what her cousin wasin the habit of fingering, Cassandra began to take down the bookswhich stood in a row upon the shelf above the bed. In most houses thisshelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belieflodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy,people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of theold charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from theirhiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By theirbattered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to beold school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, thougheccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, shethought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had apassion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine's quilt, shebecame absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten whatshe once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep inthis characteristic pursuit."My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "mywhole life's changed from this moment! I must write the man's namedown at once, or I shall forget--"Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded toascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she wasvery late."May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "Igot ready on purpose.""Oh, you're ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midstof her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping herknees, on the edge of the bed."There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect ofCassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, thedistinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its longtapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hairrose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more carefultreatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figuremight possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in theeighteenth century."Who's coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating furtherpossibilities of rapture."There's William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey.""I'm so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me hismanuscript? I think it's wonderful--I think he's almost good enoughfor you, Katharine.""You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him.""I shan't dare do that," Cassandra asserted."Why? You're not afraid of him, are you?""A little--because he's connected with you."Katharine smiled."But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you'restaying here at least a fortnight, you won't have any illusions leftabout me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall seemy power fading day by day. Now it's at the climax; but to-morrowit'll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a bluedress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe."She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out thelittle drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra,sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin's facein the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious andintent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightnessof the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Romanroad through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again byKatharine's maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dresswhich filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with bluelight and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only theslightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colorsof objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that nosight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with theroom and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yetceased to notice the hum of distant wheels.They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine's extremespeed in getting ready. To Cassandra's ears the buzz of voices insidethe drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of theorchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in theroom, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful anddressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to bemostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing wasconfined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoatwhich Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was byitself impressive, and they all exclaimed, and shook hands, and shewas introduced to Mr. Peyton, and the door sprang open, and dinner wasannounced, and they filed off, William Rodney offering her hisslightly 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 beendescribed as one of magical brilliancy. The pattern of thesoup-plates, the stiff folds of the napkins, which rose by the side ofeach plate in the shape of arum lilies, the long sticks of bread tiedwith pink ribbon, the silver dishes and the sea-colored champagneglasses, with the flakes of gold congealed in their stems--all thesedetails, 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 marvelat.The world held no more for her to marvel at, it is true; but it heldother people; and each other person possessed in Cassandra's mind somefragment of what privately she called "reality." It was a gift thatthey would impart if you asked them for it, and thus no dinner-partycould possibly be dull, and little Mr. Peyton on her right and WilliamRodney on her left were in equal measure endowed with the qualitywhich seemed to her so unmistakable and so precious that the waypeople neglected to demand it was a constant source of surprise toher. She scarcely knew, indeed, whether she was talking to Mr. Peytonor to William Rodney. But to one who, by degrees, assumed the shape ofan elderly man with a mustache, she described how she had arrived inLondon that very afternoon, and how she had taken a cab and driventhrough the streets. Mr. Peyton, an editor of fifty years, bowed hisbald head repeatedly, with apparent understanding. At least, heunderstood that she was very young and pretty, and saw that she wasexcited, though he could not gather at once from her words or rememberfrom his own experience what there was to be excited about. "Werethere any buds on the trees?" he asked. "Which line did she travelby?"He was cut short in these amiable inquiries by her desire to knowwhether he was one of those who read, or one of those who look out ofthe window? Mr. Peyton was by no means sure which he did. He ratherthought he did both. He was told that he had made a most dangerousconfession. She could deduce his entire history from that one fact. Hechallenged her to proceed; and she proclaimed him a Liberal Member ofParliament.William, nominally engaged in a desultory conversation with AuntEleanor, heard every word, and taking advantage of the fact thatelderly ladies have little continuity of conversation, at least withthose whom they esteem for their youth and their sex, he asserted hispresence 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 wasoffering untold wealth for her extraction."There's no doubt what you do in a railway carriage, William," shesaid, making use in her pleasure of his first name. "You never oncelook 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 confessthat I knew that before, so it isn't fair. I've got your manuscriptwith 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 herremark gave him. But the pleasure was not unalloyed. Howeversusceptible to flattery William might be, he would never tolerate itfrom people who showed a gross or emotional taste in literature, andif Cassandra erred even slightly from what he considered essential inthis respect he would express his discomfort by flinging out his handsand wrinkling his forehead; he would find no pleasure in her flatteryafter that."First of all," she proceeded, "I want to know why you chose to writea play?""Ah! You mean it's not dramatic?""I mean that I don't see what it would gain by being acted. But thendoes Shakespeare gain? Henry and I are always arguing aboutShakespeare. I'm certain he's wrong, but I can't prove it because I'veonly 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 onthat side. Henry's wrong--entirely wrong. Of course, I've failed, asall the moderns fail. Dear, dear, I wish I'd consulted you before."From this point they proceeded to go over, as far as memory servedthem, the different aspects of Rodney's drama. She said nothing thatjarred upon him, and untrained daring had the power to stimulateexperience to such an extent that Rodney was frequently seen to holdhis fork suspended before him, while he debated the first principlesof the art. Mrs. Hilbery thought to herself that she had never seenhim to such advantage; yes, he was somehow different; he reminded herof some one who was dead, some one who was distinguished--she hadforgotten 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 hewas in the habit of saying that he had rather have written the worksof Dickens. The table now took possession of a subject much to itsliking. Aunt Eleanor showed premonitory signs of pronouncing anopinion. Although she had blunted her taste upon some form ofphilanthropy for twenty-five years, she had a fine natural instinctfor an upstart or a pretender, and knew to a hairbreadth whatliterature should be and what it should not be. She was born to theknowledge, and scarcely thought it a matter to be proud of."Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction," she announced positively."There's the well-known case of Hamlet," Mr. Hilbery interposed, inhis leisurely, half-humorous tones."Ah, but poetry's different, Trevor," said Aunt Eleanor, as if she hadspecial authority from Shakespeare to say so. "Different altogether.And I've never thought, for my part, that Hamlet was as mad as theymake out. What is your opinion, Mr. Peyton?" For, as there was aminister of literature present in the person of the editor of anesteemed review, she deferred to him.Mr. Peyton leant a little back in his chair, and, putting his headrather on one side, observed that that was a question that he hadnever been able to answer entirely to his satisfaction. There was muchto be said on both sides, but as he considered upon which side heshould say it, Mrs. Hilbery broke in upon his judicious meditations."Lovely, lovely Ophelia!" she exclaimed. "What a wonderful power itis--poetry! I wake up in the morning all bedraggled; there's a yellowfog outside; little Emily turns on the electric light when she bringsme my tea, and says, 'Oh, ma'am, the water's frozen in the cistern,and cook's cut her finger to the bone.' And then I open a little greenbook, and the birds are singing, the stars shining, the flowerstwinkling--" She looked about her as if these presences had suddenlymanifested themselves round her dining-room table."Has the cook cut her finger badly?" Aunt Eleanor demanded, addressingherself naturally to Katharine."Oh, the cook's finger is only my way of putting it," said Mrs.Hilbery. "But if she had cut her arm off, Katharine would have sewn iton again," she remarked, with an affectionate glance at her daughter,who looked, she thought, a little sad. "But what horrid, horridthoughts," she wound up, laying down her napkin and pushing her chairback. "Come, let us find something more cheerful to talk aboutupstairs."Upstairs in the drawing-room Cassandra found fresh sources ofpleasure, first in the distinguished and expectant look of the room,and then in the chance of exercising her divining-rod upon a newassortment of human beings. But the low tones of the women, theirmeditative silences, the beauty which, to her at least, shone evenfrom black satin and the knobs of amber which encircled elderly necks,changed her wish to chatter to a more subdued desire merely to watchand to whisper. She entered with delight into an atmosphere in whichprivate matters were being interchanged freely, almost inmonosyllables, by the older women who now accepted her as one ofthemselves. Her expression became very gentle and sympathetic, as ifshe, too, were full of solicitude for the world which was somehowbeing cared for, managed and deprecated by Aunt Maggie and AuntEleanor. After a time she perceived that Katharine was outside thecommunity in some way, and, suddenly, she threw aside her wisdom andgentleness and concern and began to laugh."What are you laughing at?" Katharine asked.A joke so foolish and unfilial wasn't worth explaining."It was nothing--ridiculous--in the worst of taste, but still, if youhalf shut your eyes and looked--" Katharine half shut her eyes andlooked, but she looked in the wrong direction, and Cassandra laughedmore than ever, and was still laughing and doing her best to explainin a whisper that Aunt Eleanor, through half-shut eyes, was like theparrot in the cage at Stogdon House, when the gentlemen came in andRodney walked straight up to them and wanted to know what they werelaughing at."I utterly refuse to tell you!" Cassandra replied, standing upstraight, clasping her hands in front of her, and facing him. Hermockery was delicious to him. He had not even for a second the fearthat she had been laughing at him. She was laughing because life wasso adorable, so enchanting."Ah, but you're cruel to make me feel the barbarity of my sex," hereplied, drawing his feet together and pressing his finger-tips uponan imaginary opera-hat or malacca cane. "We've been discussing allsorts of dull things, and now I shall never know what I want to knowmore than anything in the world.""You don't deceive us for a minute!" she cried. "Not for a second. Weboth know that you've been enjoying yourself immensely. Hasn't he,Katharine?""No," she replied, "I think he's speaking the truth. He doesn't caremuch for politics."Her words, though spoken simply, produced a curious change in thelight, sparkling atmosphere. William at once lost his look ofanimation and said seriously:"I detest politics.""I don't think any man has the right to say that," said Cassandra,almost severely."I agree. I mean that I detest politicians," he corrected himselfquickly."You see, I believe Cassandra is what they call a Feminist," Katharinewent on. "Or rather, she was a Feminist six months ago, but it's nogood supposing that she is now what she was then. That is one of hergreatest charms in my eyes. One never can tell." She smiled at her asan elder sister might smile."Katharine, you make one feel so horribly small!" Cassandra exclaimed."No, no, that's not what she means," Rodney interposed. "I quite agreethat women have an immense advantage over us there. One misses a lotby attempting to know things thoroughly.""He knows Greek thoroughly," said Katharine. "But then he also knows agood deal about painting, and a certain amount about music. He's verycultivated--perhaps the most cultivated person I know.""And poetry," Cassandra added."Yes, I was forgetting his play," Katharine remarked, and turning herhead as though she saw something that needed her attention in a farcorner of the room, she left them.For a moment they stood silent, after what seemed a deliberateintroduction to each other, and Cassandra watched her crossing theroom."Henry," she said next moment, "would say that a stage ought to be nobigger than this drawing-room. He wants there to be singing anddancing as well as acting--only all the opposite of Wagner--youunderstand?"They sat down, and Katharine, turning when she reached the window, sawWilliam with his hand raised in gesticulation and his mouth open, asif ready to speak the moment Cassandra ceased.Katharine's duty, whether it was to pull a curtain or move a chair,was either forgotten or discharged, but she continued to stand by thewindow without doing anything. The elderly people were all groupedtogether round the fire. They seemed an independent, middle-agedcommunity busy with its own concerns. They were telling stories verywell and listening to them very graciously. But for her there was noobvious employment."If anybody says anything, I shall say that I'm looking at the river,"she thought, for in her slavery to her family traditions, she wasready to pay for her transgression with some plausible falsehood. Shepushed aside the blind and looked at the river. But it was a darknight and the water was barely visible. Cabs were passing, and coupleswere loitering slowly along the road, keeping as close to the railingsas possible, though the trees had as yet no leaves to cast shadow upontheir embraces. Katharine, thus withdrawn, felt her loneliness. Theevening had been one of pain, offering her, minute after minute,plainer proof that things would fall out as she had foreseen. She hadfaced tones, gestures, glances; she knew, with her back to them, thatWilliam, even now, was plunging deeper and deeper into the delight ofunexpected understanding with Cassandra. He had almost told her thathe was finding it infinitely better than he could have believed. Shelooked out of the window, sternly determined to forget privatemisfortunes, to forget herself, to forget individual lives. With hereyes upon the dark sky, voices reached her from the room in which shewas standing. She heard them as if they came from people in anotherworld, a world antecedent to her world, a world that was the prelude,the antechamber to reality; it was as if, lately dead, she heard theliving talking. The dream nature of our life had never been moreapparent to her, never had life been more certainly an affair of fourwalls, whose objects existed only within the range of lights andfires, beyond which lay nothing, or nothing more than darkness. Sheseemed physically to have stepped beyond the region where the light ofillusion still makes it desirable to possess, to love, to struggle.And yet her melancholy brought her no serenity. She still heard thevoices within the room. She was still tormented by desires. She wishedto be beyond their range. She wished inconsistently enough that shecould find herself driving rapidly through the streets; she was evenanxious to be with some one who, after a moment's groping, took adefinite shape and solidified into the person of Mary Datchet. Shedrew the curtains so that the draperies met in deep folds in themiddle of the window."Ah, there she is," said Mr. Hilbery, who was standing swaying affablyfrom side to side, with his back to the fire. "Come here, Katharine. Icouldn't see where you'd got to--our children," he observedparenthetically, "have their uses--I want you to go to my study,Katharine; go to the third shelf on the right-hand side of the door;take down 'Trelawny's Recollections of Shelley'; bring it to me. Then,Peyton, you will have to admit to the assembled company that you havebeen mistaken.""'Trelawny's Recollections of Shelley.' The third shelf on the rightof the door," Katharine repeated. After all, one does not checkchildren in their play, or rouse sleepers from their dreams. Shepassed William and Cassandra on her way to the door."Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he wereconscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after asecond's hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort.She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down ather cousin's face, which still moved with the speed of what she hadbeen saying."Are you--happy?" she asked."Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words wereneeded. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun,"she exclaimed, "but I think he's the cleverest man I've ever met--andyou're the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, andas she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholyin sympathy with Katharine's melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra thelast refinement of her distinction."Ah, but it's only ten o'clock," said Katharine darkly."As late as that! Well--?" She did not understand."At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades.But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandralooked at her with a puzzled expression."Here's Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of oddthings," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick."Can you make her out?"Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he didnot find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stoodupright at once and said in a different tone:"I really am off, though. I wish you'd explain if they say anything,William. I shan't be late, but I've got to see some one.""At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed."Whom have you got to see?" William demanded."A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knewthat he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in theirneighborhood, in case of need."Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely,sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room.She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through thelamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense ofbeing out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Maryin her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed thestone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirtand blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, underthe light of an occasional jet of flickering gas.The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed notonly surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree ofembarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no timefor explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, andfound herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in achair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he waslooking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in themiddle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady infull evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from hismouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk."Have you been dining out?" Mary asked."Are you working?" Katharine inquired simultaneously.The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in thequestion with some irritation."Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought somepapers to show me. We were going through them, but we'd almostdone. . . . Tell us about your party."Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingersthrough her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressedmore or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in achair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; thesaucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of manycigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion anda high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was oneof that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton,justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He hadcome down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was nowcharged with the reformation of society. In connection with the restof the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for theeducation of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and theworking class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined inthe Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The schemehad already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire anoffice and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound thescheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which,as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seveno'clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document inwhich the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the readingwas so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so oftennecessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the privatecharacters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies thatthey were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of themrealized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In theirabsorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr.Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefullypreserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of thehuman mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began,"Am I to understand--" and his replies invariably represented theviews of some one called "we."By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included inthe "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views,"our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite definitelysegregated from the main body of society in a circle of superiorillumination.The appearance of Katharine in this atmosphere was extremelyincongruous, and had the effect of making Mary remember all sorts ofthings that she had been glad to forget."You've been dining out?" she asked again, looking, with a littlesmile, at the blue silk and the pearl-sewn shoes."No, at home. Are you starting something new?" Katharine hazarded,rather hesitatingly, looking at the papers."We are," Mr. Basnett replied. He said no more."I'm thinking of leaving our friends in Russell Square," Maryexplained."I see. And then you will do something else.""Well, I'm afraid I like working," said Mary."Afraid," said Mr. Basnett, conveying the impression that, in hisopinion, no sensible person could be afraid of liking to work."Yes," said Katharine, as if he had stated this opinion aloud. "Ishould like to start something--something off one's own bat--that'swhat I should like.""Yes, that's the fun," said Mr. Basnett, looking at her for the firsttime rather keenly, and refilling his pipe."But you can't limit work--that's what I mean," said Mary. "I meanthere are other sorts of work. No one works harder than a woman withlittle children.""Quite so," said Mr. Basnett. "It's precisely the women with babies wewant to get hold of." He glanced at his document, rolled it into acylinder between his fingers, and gazed into the fire. Katharine feltthat in this company anything that one said would be judged upon itsmerits; one had only to say what one thought, rather barely andtersely, with a curious assumption that the number of things thatcould properly be thought about was strictly limited. And Mr. Basnettwas only stiff upon the surface; there was an intelligence in his facewhich attracted her intelligence."When will the public know?" she asked."What d'you mean--about us?" Mr. Basnett asked, with a little smile."That depends upon many things," said Mary. The conspirators lookedpleased, as if Katharine's question, with the belief in theirexistence which it implied, had a warming effect upon them."In starting a society such as we wish to start (we can't say any moreat present)," Mr. Basnett began, with a little jerk of his head,"there are two things to remember--the Press and the public. Othersocieties, which shall be nameless, have gone under because they'veappealed only to cranks. If you don't want a mutual admirationsociety, which dies as soon as you've all discovered each other'sfaults, you must nobble the Press. You must appeal to the public.""That's the difficulty," said Mary thoughtfully."That's where she comes in," said Mr. Basnett, jerking his head inMary's direction. "She's the only one of us who's a capitalist. Shecan make a whole-time job of it. I'm tied to an office; I can onlygive my spare time. Are you, by any chance, on the look-out for ajob?" he asked Katharine, with a queer mixture of distrust anddeference."Marriage is her job at present," Mary replied for her."Oh, I see," said Mr. Basnett. He made allowances for that; he and hisfriends had faced the question of sex, along with all others, andassigned it an honorable place in their scheme of life. Katharine feltthis beneath the roughness of his manner; and a world entrusted to theguardianship of Mary Datchet and Mr. Basnett seemed to her a goodworld, although not a romantic or beautiful place or, to put itfiguratively, a place where any line of blue mist softly linked treeto tree upon the horizon. For a moment she thought she saw in hisface, bent now over the fire, the features of that original man whomwe still recall every now and then, although we know only the clerk,barrister, Governmental official, or workingman variety of him. Notthat Mr. Basnett, giving his days to commerce and his spare time tosocial reform, would long carry about him any trace of hispossibilities of completeness; but, for the moment, in his youth andardor, still speculative, still uncramped, one might imagine him thecitizen of a nobler state than ours. Katharine turned over her smallstock of information, and wondered what their society might be goingto attempt. Then she remembered that she was hindering their business,and rose, still thinking of this society, and thus thinking, she saidto Mr. Basnett:"Well, you'll ask me to join when the time comes, I hope."He nodded, and took his pipe from his mouth, but, being unable tothink of anything to say, he put it back again, although he would havebeen glad if she had stayed.Against her wish, Mary insisted upon taking her downstairs, and then,as there was no cab to be seen, they stood in the street together,looking about them."Go back," Katharine urged her, thinking of Mr. Basnett with hispapers in his hand."You can't wander about the streets alone in those clothes," saidMary, but the desire to find a cab was not her true reason forstanding beside Katharine for a minute or two. Unfortunately for hercomposure, Mr. Basnett and his papers seemed to her an incidentaldiversion of life's serious purpose compared with some tremendous factwhich manifested itself as she stood alone with Katharine. It may havebeen their common womanhood."Have you seen Ralph?" she asked suddenly, without preface."Yes," said Katharine directly, but she did not remember when or whereshe had seen him. It took her a moment or two to remember why Maryshould ask her if she had seen Ralph."I believe I'm jealous," said Mary."Nonsense, Mary," said Katharine, rather distractedly, taking her armand beginning to walk up the street in the direction of the main road."Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that'swhat happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tellher more. But Katharine said nothing."It's not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising,to her own surprise. "You know it's not. How can it be? I've no rightto interfere--" She stopped. "Only I'd rather Ralph wasn't hurt," sheconcluded."I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed.Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risenbetween them."Do you really think it's worth it?" said Mary, after a pause."How can one tell?" Katharine asked."Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly."I can't wander about London discussing my feelings--Here's a cab--no,there's some one in it.""We don't want to quarrel," said Mary."Ought I to have told him that I wouldn't be his friend?" Katharineasked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?""Of course you can't tell him that," said Mary, controlling herself."I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly."I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn't have said what I did.""The whole thing's foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That'swhat I say. It's not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence,but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity hadcompletely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficultyand darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both tofind a way."No, no, it's not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say,it's out of the question--this friendship; he falls in love with me. Idon't want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love'snot everything; marriage itself is only one of the things--" They hadreached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses andpassers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharinehad said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it hadbecome one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seemsunnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness andself-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to theirpossessions."I don't lay down any rules,"' said Mary, recovering herself first, asthey turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is thatyou should know what you're about--for certain; but," she added, "Iexpect you do."At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what sheknew of the arrangements for Katharine's marriage, but by theimpression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark andinscrutable.They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary'sflat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing."You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He's waiting allthis time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lightedwindow near the top of the house, and they both looked at it andwaited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to thehall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused,looking down upon Katharine."I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly,and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down oncemore upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in thestreet with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cabcame by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened thedoor:"Remember, I want to belong to your society--remember," she added,having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon therest of her words.Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her bodyup an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forciblyaway from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She held ongrimly, encouraging herself as though she were actually making somegreat physical effort in climbing a height. She was conscious that Mr.Basnett, sitting at the top of the stairs with his documents, offeredher solid footing if she were capable of reaching it. The knowledgegave her a faint sense of exaltation.Mr. Basnett raised his eyes as she opened the door."I'll go on where I left off," he said. "Stop me if you want anythingexplained."He had been re-reading the document, and making pencil notes in themargin while he waited, and he went on again as if there had been nointerruption. Mary sat down among the flat cushions, lit anothercigarette, and listened with a frown upon her face.Katharine leant back in the corner of the cab that carried her toChelsea, conscious of fatigue, and conscious, too, of the sober andsatisfactory nature of such industry as she had just witnessed. Thethought of it composed and calmed her. When she reached home she letherself in as quietly as she could, in the hope that the household wasalready gone to bed. But her excursion had occupied less time than shethought, and she heard sounds of unmistakable liveliness upstairs. Adoor opened, and she drew herself into a ground-floor room in case thesound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where shestood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Someone was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was WilliamRodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in hissleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. Hecame down very slowly, step by step, with one hand upon the banistersto guide himself. She thought he looked as if he were in some mood ofhigh exaltation, which it made her uncomfortable to witness any longerunseen. She stepped into the hall. He gave a great start upon seeingher and stopped."Katharine!" he exclaimed. "You've been out?" he asked."Yes. . . . Are they still up?"He did not answer, and walked into the ground-floor room through thedoor which stood open."It's been more wonderful than I can tell you," he said, "I'mincredibly happy--"He was scarcely addressing her, and she said nothing. For a momentthey stood at opposite sides of a table saying nothing. Then he askedher quickly, "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think,Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!"Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above anddisturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back,walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiouslyordinary tone:"Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope Ishall be able to come to-morrow."Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on thelanding. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stoopingto look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could nevertell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, ormetaphysics."What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walkedupstairs side by side."Sometimes one thing--sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely.Cassandra looked at her."D'you know, you're extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seemsto me a little queer. Perhaps it's the effect of London.""Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked."Well, I think he is a little," Cassandra replied. "Queer, but veryfascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It's been one of thehappiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shydevotion at her cousin's beautiful face.