to give her Ralph’s address。 The decision was a relief； not
only in giving her a goal； but in providing her with a
rational excuse for her own actions。 It gave her a goal
certainly； but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell
exclusively upon her obsession； so that when she rang
the bell of Mary’s flat； she did not for a moment consider
how this demand would strike Mary。 To her extreme annoyance
Mary was not at home； a charwoman opened the
door。 All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation
to wait。 She waited for； perhaps； fifteen minutes； and
spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the
other without intermission。 When she heard Mary’s key in
the door she paused in front of the fireplace； and Mary
found her standing upright； looking at once expectant
and determined； like a person who has e on an errand
of such importance that it must be broached without
preface。
Mary exclaimed in surprise。
“Yes； yes；” Katharine said； brushing these remarks aside；
as if they were in the way。
“Have you had tea？”
“Oh yes；” she said； thinking that she had had tea hundreds
of years ago； somewhere or other。
Mary paused； took off her gloves； and； finding matches；
proceeded to light the fire。
Katharine checked her with an impatient movement；
and said：
“Don’t light the fire for me… 。 I want to know Ralph
Denham’s address。”
She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the
envelope。 She waited with an imperious expression。
“The Apple Orchard； Mount Ararat Road； Highgate；” Mary
said； speaking slowly and rather strangely。
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Night and Day
“Oh； I remember now！” Katharine exclaimed； with irritation
at her own stupidity。 “I suppose it wouldn’t take
twenty minutes to drive there？” She gathered up her purse
and gloves and seemed about to go。
“But you won’t find him；” said Mary； pausing with a
match in her hand。 Katharine； who had already turned
towards the door； stopped and looked at her。
“Why？ Where is he？” she asked。
“He won’t have left his office。”
“But he has left the office；” she replied。 “The only question
is will he have reached home yet？ He went to see me
at Chelsea； I tried to meet him and missed him。 He will
have found no message to explain。 So I must find him—
as soon as possible。”
Mary took in the situation at her leisure。
“But why not telephone？” she said。
Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding；
her strained expression relaxed； and exclaiming； “Of course！
Why didn’t I think of that！” she seized the telephone receiver
and gave her number。 Mary looked at her steadily；
and then left the room。 At length Katharine heard； through
all the superimposed weight of London； the mysterious
sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little
room； where she could almost see the pictures and the
books； she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory
vibrations； and then established her identity。
“Has Mr。 Denham called？”
“Yes； miss。”
“Did he ask for me？”
“Yes。 We said you were out； miss。”
“Did he leave any message？”
“No。 He went away。 About twenty minutes ago； miss。”
Katharine hung up the receiver。 She walked the length
of the room in such acute disappointment that she did
not at first perceive Mary’s absence。 Then she called in a
harsh and peremptory tone：
“Mary。”
Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom。
She heard Katharine call her。 “Yes；” she said； “I shan’t be
a moment。” But the moment prolonged itself； as if for
some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself
not only tidy； but seemly and ornamented。 A stage in her
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Virginia Woolf
life had been acplished in the last months which left
its traces for ever upon her bearing。 Youth； and the bloom
of youth； had receded； leaving the purpose of her face to
show itself in the hollower cheeks； the firmer lips； the
eyes no longer spontaneously observing at random； but
narrowed upon an end which was not near at hand。 This
woman was now a serviceable human being； mistress of
her own destiny； and thus； by some bination of ideas；
fit to be adorned with the dignity of silver chains and
glowing brooches。 She came in at her leisure and asked：
“Well； did you get an answer？”
“He has left Chelsea already；” Katharine replied。
“Still； he won’t be home yet；” said Mary。
Katharine was once more irresistibly drawn to gaze upon
an imaginary map of London； to follow the twists and
turns of unnamed streets。
“I’ll ring up his home and ask whether he’s back。” Mary
crossed to the telephone and； after a series of brief remarks；
announced：
“No。 His sister says he hasn’t e back yet。”
“Ah！” She applied her ear to the telephone once more。
“They’ve had a message。 He won’t be back to dinner。”
“Then what is he going to do？”
Very pale； and with her large eyes fixed not so much
upon Mary as upon vistas of unresponding blankness；
Katharine addressed herself also not so much to Mary as
to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared to mock
her from every quarter of her survey。
After waiting a little time Mary remarked indifferently：
“I really don’t know。” Slackly lying back in her armchair；
she watched the little flames beginning to creep
among the coals indifferently； as if they； too； were very
distant and indifferent。
Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose。
“Possibly he may e here；” Mary continued； without
altering the abstract tone of her voice。 “It would be worth
your while to wait if you want to see him tonight。” She
bent forward and touched the wood； so that the flames
slipped in between the interstices of the coal。
Katharine reflected。 “I’ll wait half an hour；” she said。
Mary rose； went to the table； spread out her papers
under the greenshaded lamp and； with an action that
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Night and Day
was being a habit； twisted a lock of hair round and
round in her fingers。 Once she looked unperceived at her
visitor； who never moved； who sat so still； with eyes so
intent； that you could almost fancy that she was watching
something； some face that never looked up at her。
Mary found herself unable to go on writing。 She turned
her eyes away； but only to be aware of the presence of
what Katharine looked at。 There were ghosts in the room；
and one； strangely and sadly； was the ghost of herself。
The minutes went by。
“What would be the time now？” said Katharine at last。
The halfhour was not quite spent。
“I’m going to get dinner ready；” said Mary； rising from
her table。
“Then I’ll go；” said Katharine。
“Why don’t you stay？ Where are you going？”
Katharine looked round the room； conveying her uncertainty
in her glance。
“Perhaps I might find him；” she mused。
“But why should it matter？ You’ll see him another day。”
Mary spoke； and intended to speak； cruelly enough。
“I was wrong to e here；” Katharine replied。
Their eyes met with antagonism； and neither flinched。
“You had a perfect right to e here；” Mary answered。
A loud knocking at the door interrupted them。 Mary
went to open it； and returning with some note or parcel；
Katharine looked away so that Mary might not read her
disappointment。
“Of course you had a right to e；” Mary repeated；
laying the note upon the table。
“No；” said Katharine。 “Except that when one’s desperate
one has a sort of right。 I am desperate。 How do I
know what’s happening to him now？ He may do anything。
He may wander about the streets all night。 Anything may
happen to him。”
She spoke with a selfabandonment that Mary had never
seen in her。
“You know you exaggerate； you’re talking nonsense；”
she said roughly。
“Mary； I must talk—I must tell you—”
“You needn’t tell me anything；” Mary interrupted her。
“Can’t I see for myself？”
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Virginia Woolf
“No； no；” Katharine exclaimed。 “It’s not that—”
Her look； passing beyond Mary； beyond the verge of the
room and out beyond any words that came her way； wildly
and passionately； convinced Mary that she； at any rate；
could not follow such a glance to its end。 She was baffled；
she tried to think herself back again into the height of
her love for Ralph。 Pressing her fingers upon her eyelids；
she murmured：
“You forget that I loved him too。 I thought I knew him。
I did know him。”
And yet； what had she known？ She could not remember
it any more。 She pressed her eyeballs until they struck
stars and suns into her darkness。 She convinced herself
that she was stirring among ashes。 She desisted。 She was
astonished at her discovery。 She did not love Ralph any
more。 She looked back dazed into the room； and her eyes
rested upon the table with its lamplit papers。 The steady
radiance seemed for a second to have its counterpart
within her； she shut her eyes； she opened them and looked
at the lamp again； another love burnt in the place of the
old one； or so； in a momentary glance of amazement； she