it all； that to have sat there all day long； in the enjoyment
of leisure； would have been intolerable。
Out in the street she liked to think herself one of the
workers who； at this hour； take their way in rapid single
file along all the broad pavements of the city； with their
heads slightly lowered； as if all their effort were to follow
each other as closely as might be； so that Mary used to
figure to herself a straight rabbitrun worn by their un
swerving feet upon the pavement。 But she liked to pretend
that she was indistinguishable from the rest； and
that when a wet day drove her to the Underground or
omnibus； she gave and took her share of crowd and wet
with clerks and typists and mercial men； and shared
with them the serious business of windingup the world
to tick for another fourandtwenty hours。
Thus thinking； on the particular morning in question；
she made her away across Lincoln’s Inn Fields and up
Kingsway； and so through Southampton Row until she
reached her office in Russell Square。 Now and then she
would pause and look into the window of some bookseller
or flower shop； where； at this early hour； the goods
were being arranged； and empty gaps behind the plate
glass revealed a state of undress。 Mary felt kindly disposed
towards the shopkeepers； and hoped that they would
trick the midday public into purchasing； for at this hour
of the morning she ranged herself entirely on the side of
the shopkeepers and bank clerks； and regarded all who
slept late and had money to spend as her enemy and
natural prey。 And directly she had crossed the road at
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Night and Day
Holborn； her thoughts all came naturally and regularly to
roost upon her work； and she forgot that she was； properly
speaking； an amateur worker； whose services were
unpaid； and could hardly be said to wind the world up for
its daily task； since the world； so far； had shown very
little desire to take the boons which Mary’s society for
woman’s suffrage had offered it。
She was thinking all the way up Southampton Row of
notepaper and foolscap； and how an economy in the use
of paper might be effected （without； of course； hurting
Mrs。 Seal’s feelings）； for she was certain that the great
organizers always pounce； to begin with； upon trifles like
these； and build up their triumphant reforms upon a basis
of absolute solidity； and； without acknowledging it
for a moment； Mary Datchet was determined to be a great
organizer； and had already doomed her society to reconstruction
of the most radical kind。 Once or twice lately； it
is true； she had started； broad awake； before turning into
Russell Square； and denounced herself rather sharply for
being already in a groove； capable； that is； of thinking
the same thoughts every morning at the same hour； so
that the chestnutcolored brick of the Russell Square
houses had some curious connection with her thoughts
about office economy； and served also as a sign that she
should get into trim for meeting Mr。 Clacton； or Mrs。 Seal；
or whoever might be beforehand with her at the office。
Having no religious belief； she was the more conscientious
about her life； examining her position from time to
time very seriously； and nothing annoyed her more than
to find one of these bad habits nibbling away unheeded
at the precious substance。 What was the good； after all；
of being a woman if one didn’t keep fresh； and cram one’s
life with all sorts of views and experiments？ Thus she
always gave herself a little shake； as she turned the corner；
and； as often as not； reached her own door whistling
a snatch of a Somersetshire ballad。
The suffrage office was at the top of one of the large
Russell Square houses； which had once been lived in by a
great city merchant and his family； and was now let out
in slices to a number of societies which displayed assorted
initials upon doors of ground glass； and kept； each
of them； a typewriter which clicked busily all day long。
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Virginia Woolf
The old house； with its great stone staircase； echoed hollowly
to the sound of typewriters and of errandboys from
ten to six。 The noise of different typewriters already at
work； disseminating their views upon the protection of
native races； or the value of cereals as foodstuffs； quickened
Mary’s steps； and she always ran up the last flight
of steps which led to her own landing； at whatever hour
she came； so as to get her typewriter to take its place in
petition with the rest。
She sat herself down to her letters； and very soon all
these speculations were forgotten； and the two lines drew
themselves between her eyebrows； as the contents of the
letters； the office furniture； and the sounds of activity in
the next room gradually asserted their sway upon her。 By
eleven o’clock the atmosphere of concentration was running
so strongly in one direction that any thought of a
different order could hardly have survived its birth more
than a moment or so。 The task which lay before her was
to organize a series of entertainments； the profits of which
were to benefit the society； which drooped for want of
funds。 It was her first attempt at organization on a large
scale； and she meant to achieve something remarkable。
She meant to use the cumbrous machine to pick out this；
that； and the other interesting person from the muddle
of the world； and to set them for a week in a pattern
which must catch the eyes of Cabi Ministers； and the
eyes once caught； the old arguments were to be delivered
with unexampled originality。 Such was the scheme
as a whole； and in contemplation of it she would bee
quite flushed and excited； and have to remind herself of
all the details that intervened between her and success。
The door would open； and Mr。 Clacton would e in to
search for a certain leaflet buried beneath a pyramid of
leaflets。 He was a thin； sandyhaired man of about thirty
five； spoke with a Cockney accent； and had about him a
frugal look； as if nature had not dealt generously with
him in any way； which； naturally； prevented him from
dealing generously with other people。 When he had found
his leaflet； and offered a few jocular hints upon keeping
papers in order； the typewriting would stop abruptly； and
Mrs。 Seal would burst into the room with a letter which
needed explanation in her hand。 This was a more serious
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Night and Day
interruption than the other； because she never knew exactly
what she wanted； and half a dozen requests would
bolt from her； no one of which was clearly stated。 Dressed
in plumcolored velveteen； with short； gray hair； and a
face that seemed permanently flushed with philanthropic
enthusiasm； she was always in a hurry； and always in
some disorder。 She wore two crucifixes； which got themselves
entangled in a heavy gold chain upon her breast；
and seemed to Mary expressive of her mental ambiguity。
Only her vast enthusiasm and her worship of Miss Markham；
one of the pioneers of the society； kept her in her place；
for which she had no sound qualification。
So the morning wore on； and the pile of letters grew；
and Mary felt； at last； that she was the center ganglion of
a very fine work of nerves which fell over England；
and one of these days； when she touched the heart of the
system； would begin feeling and rushing together and
emitting their splendid blaze of revolutionary fireworks
—for some such metaphor represents what she felt about
her work； when her brain had been heated by three hours
of application。
Shortly before one o’clock Mr。 Clacton and Mrs。 Seal
desisted from their labors； and the old joke about luncheon；
which came out regularly at this hour； was repeated
with scarcely any variation of words。 Mr。 Clacton
patronized a vegetarian restaurant； Mrs。 Seal brought
sandwiches； which she ate beneath the plarees in
Russell Square； while Mary generally went to a gaudy establishment；
upholstered in red plush； near by； where；
much to the vegetarian’s disapproval； you could buy steak；
two inches thick； or a roast section of fowl； swimming in
a pewter dish。
“The bare branches against the sky do one so much
good；” Mrs。 Seal asserted； looking out into the Square。
“But one can’t lunch off trees； Sally；” said Mary。
“I confess I don’t know how you manage it； Miss
Datchet；” Mr。 Clacton remarked。 “I should sleep all the
afternoon； I know； if I took a heavy meal in the middle of
the day。”
“What’s the very latest thing in literature？” Mary asked；
goodhumoredly pointing to the yellowcovered volume
beneath Mr。 Clacton’s arm； for he invariably read some
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Virginia Woolf
new French author at lunchtime； or squeezed in a visit
to a picture gallery； balancing his social work with an
ardent culture of which he was secretly proud； as Mary
had very soon divined。
So they parted and Mary walked away； wondering if
they guessed that she really wanted to get away from
them； and supposing that they had not quite reached
that degree of subtlety。 She bought herself an evening
paper； which she read a