“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 386 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 387 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？” 388 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