Shakespeare had undoubtedly stood； where his very bones
lay directly beneath one’s feet； was so absorbing to her
on this particular occasion that she greeted her daughter
with the exclamation：
“D’you think he ever passed this house？”
The question； for the moment； seemed to Katharine to
have reference to Ralph Denham。
“On his way to Blackfriars； I mean；” Mrs。 Hilbery continued；
“for you know the latest discovery is that he owned
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a house there。”
Katharine still looked about her in perplexity； and Mrs。
Hilbery added：
“Which is a proof that he wasn’t as poor as they’ve
sometimes said。 I should like to think that he had enough；
though I don’t in the least want him to be rich。”
Then； perceiving her daughter’s expression of perplexity；
Mrs。 Hilbery burst out laughing。
“My dear； I’m not talking about YOUR William； though
that’s another reason for liking him。 I’m talking； I’m thinking；
I’m dreaming of MY William—William Shakespeare；
of course。 Isn’t it odd；” she mused； standing at the window
and tapping gently upon the pane； “that for all one
can see； that dear old thing in the blue bon； crossing
the road with her basket on her arm； has never heard
that there was such a person？ Yet it all goes on： lawyers
hurrying to their work； cabmen squabbling for their fares；
little boys rolling their hoops； little girls throwing bread
to the gulls； as if there weren’t a Shakespeare in the
world。 I should like to stand at that crossing all day long
and say： ‘People； read Shakespeare！’”
Katharine sat down at her table and opened a long
dusty envelope。 As Shelley was mentioned in the course
of the letter as if he were alive； it had； of course； considerable
value。 Her immediate task was to decide whether
the whole letter should be printed； or only the paragraph
which mentioned Shelley’s name； and she reached out for
a pen and held it in readiness to do justice upon the
sheet。 Her pen； however； remained in the air。 Almost surreptitiously
she slipped a clean sheet in front of her； and
her hand； descending； began drawing square boxes halved
and quartered by straight lines； and then circles which
underwent the same process of dissection。
“Katharine！ I’ve hit upon a brilliant idea！” Mrs。 Hilbery
exclaimed—”to lay out； say； a hundred pounds or so on
copies of Shakespeare； and give them to working men。
Some of your clever friends who get up meetings might
help us； Katharine。 And that might lead to a playhouse；
where we could all take parts。 You’d be Rosalind—but
you’ve a dash of the old nurse in you。 Your father’s Hamlet；
e to years of discretion； and I’m—well； I’m a bit
of them all； I’m quite a large bit of the fool； but the fools
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in Shakespeare say all the clever things。 Now who shall
William be？ A hero？ Hotspur？ Henry the Fifth？ No； William’s
got a touch of Hamlet in him； too。 I can fancy that William
talks to himself when he’s alone。 Ah； Katharine； you
must say very beautiful things when you’re together！”
she added wistfully； with a glance at her daughter； who
had told her nothing about the dinner the night before。
“Oh； we talk a lot of nonsense；” said Katharine； hiding
her slip of paper as her mother stood by her； and spreading
the old letter about Shelley in front of her。
“It won’t seem to you nonsense in ten years’ time；”
said Mrs。 Hilbery。 “Believe me； Katharine； you’ll look back
on these days afterwards； you’ll remember all the silly
things you’ve said； and you’ll find that your life has been
built on them。 The best of life is built on what we say
when we’re in love。 It isn’t nonsense； Katharine；” she
urged； “it’s the truth； it’s the only truth。”
Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother；
and then she was on the point of confiding in her。 They
came strangely close together sometimes。 But； while she
hesitated and sought for words not too direct； her mother
had recourse to Shakespeare； and turned page after page；
set upon finding some quotation which said all this about
love far； far better than she could。 Accordingly； Katharine
did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black
with her pencil； in the midst of which process the telephone
bell rang； and she left the room to answer it。
When she returned； Mrs。 Hilbery had found not the passage
she wanted； but another of exquisite beauty as she
justly observed； looking up for a second to ask Katharine
who that was？
“Mary Datchet；” Katharine replied briefly。
“Ah—I half wish I’d called you Mary； but it wouldn’t
have gone with Hilbery； and it wouldn’t have gone with
Rodney。 Now this isn’t the passage I wanted。 （I never can
find what I want。） But it’s spring； it’s the daffodils； it’s
the green fields； it’s the birds。”
She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative
telephonebell。 Once more Katharine left the room。
“My dear child； how odious the triumphs of science are！”
Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed on her return。 “They’ll be linking
us with the moon next—but who was that？”
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“William；” Katharine replied yet more briefly。
“I’ll forgive William anything； for I’m certain that there
aren’t any Williams in the moon。 I hope he’s ing to
luncheon？”
“He’s ing to tea。”
“Well； that’s better than nothing； and I promise to leave
you alone。”
“There’s no need for you to do that；” said Katharine。
She swept her hand over the faded sheet； and drew
herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste
time any longer。 The gesture was not lost upon her mother。
It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable
in her daughter’s character； which struck chill
upon her； as the sight of poverty； or drunkenness； or the
logic with which Mr。 Hilbery sometimes thought good to
demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium
struck chill upon her。 She went back to her own table；
and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression
of quiet humility； addressed herself for the first time that
morning to the task before her。 The shock with an unsympathetic
world had a sobering effect on her。 For once；
her industry surpassed her daughter’s。 Katharine could
not reduce the world to that particular perspective in
which Harriet Martineau； for instance； was a figure of
solid importance； and possessed of a genuine relationship
to this figure or to that date。 Singularly enough； the
sharp call of the telephonebell still echoed in her ear；
and her body and mind were in a state of tension； as if；
at any moment； she might hear another summons of
greater interest to her than the whole of the nieenth
century。 She did not clearly realize what this call was to
be； but when the ears have got into the habit of listening；
they go on listening involuntarily； and thus Katharine
spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a
variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea。 For the
first time in her life； probably； she wished that Mrs。 Hilbery
would not keep so closely to her work。 A quotation from
Shakespeare would not have e amiss。 Now and again
she heard a sigh from her mother’s table； but that was
the only proof she gave of her existence； and Katharine
did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of
her own position at the table； or； perhaps； she would
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Night and Day
have thrown her pen down and told her mother the reason
of her restlessness。 The only writing she managed to acplish
in the course of the morning was one letter； addressed
to her cousin； Cassandra Otway—a rambling letter；
long； affectionate； playful and manding all at once。
She bade Cassandra put her creatures in the charge of a
groom； and e to them for a week or so。 They would go
and hear some music together。 Cassandra’s dislike of rational
society； she said； was an affectation fast hardening
into a prejudice； which would； in the long run； isolate her
from all interesting people and pursuits。 She was finishing
the sheet when the sound she was anticipating all the
time actually struck upon her ears。 She jumped up hastily；
and slammed the door with a sharpness which made Mrs。
Hilbery start。 Where was Katharine off to？ In her preoccupied
state she had not heard the bell。
The alcove on the stairs； in which the telephone was
placed； was screened for privacy by a curtain of purple
velvet。 It was a pocket for superfluous possessions； such
as exist in most houses which harbor the wreckage of
three generations。 Prints of greatuncles； famed for their
prowess in the East； hung above Chinese teapots； whose
sides were riveted by little gold stitches； and the precious
teapots； again； stood upon bookcases containing
the plete works of William Cowper and Sir Walter Scott。
The thread of sound； issuing from the telephone； was
always colored by the surroundings which received it； so
it seemed to Katharine。 Whose voice was now going to
bine with them； or to strike a discor