behind glass； and then a mahogany writingtable；
with its orderly equipment； and； finally； a picture above
the table； to which special illumination was accorded。
When Katharine had touched these last lights； she stood
back； as much as to say； “There！” Denham found himself
looked down upon by the eyes of the great poet； Richard
Alardyce； and suffered a little shock which would have
led him； had he been wearing a hat； to remove it。 The
eyes looked at him out of the mellow pinks and yellows
of the paint with divine friendliness； which embraced him；
and passed on to contemplate the entire world。 The paint
8
Virginia Woolf
had so faded that very little but the beautiful large eyes
were left； dark in the surrounding dimness。
Katharine waited as though for him to receive a full
impression； and then she said：
“This is his writingtable。 He used this pen；” and she
lifted a quill pen and laid it down again。 The writing
table was splashed with old ink； and the pen disheveled
in service。 There lay the gigantic goldrimmed spectacles；
ready to his hand； and beneath the table was a pair of
large； worn slippers； one of which Katharine picked up；
remarking：
“I think my grandfather must have been at least twice as
large as any one is nowadays。 This；” she went on； as if she
knew what she had to say by heart； “is the original manuscript
of the ‘Ode to Winter。’ The early poems are far less
corrected than the later。 Would you like to look at it？”
While Mr。 Denham examined the manuscript； she glanced
up at her grandfather； and； for the thousandth time； fell
into a pleasant dreamy state in which she seemed to be
the panion of those giant men； of their own lineage；
at any rate； and the insignificant present moment was
put to shame。 That magnificent ghostly head on the canvas；
surely； never beheld all the trivialities of a Sunday
afternoon； and it did not seem to matter what she and
this young man said to each other； for they were only
small people。
“This is a copy of the first edition of the poems；” she
continued； without considering the fact that Mr。 Denham
was still occupied with the manuscript； “which contains
several poems that have not been reprinted； as well as
corrections。” She paused for a minute； and then went on；
as if these spaces had all been calculated。
“That lady in blue is my greatgrandmother； by
Millington。 Here is my uncle’s walkingstick—he was Sir
Richard Warburton； you know； and rode with Havelock to
the Relief of Lucknow。 And then； let me see—oh； that’s
the original Alardyce； 1697； the founder of the family
fortunes； with his wife。 Some one gave us this bowl the
other day because it has their crest and initials。 We think
it must have been given them to celebrate their silver
weddingday。”
Here she stopped for a moment； wondering why it was
9
Night and Day
that Mr。 Denham said nothing。 Her feeling that he was
antagonistic to her； which had lapsed while she thought
of her family possessions； returned so keenly that she
stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him。
Her mother； wishing to connect him reputably with the
great dead； had pared him with Mr。 Ruskin； and the
parison was in Katharine’s mind； and led her to be
more critical of the young man than was fair； for a young
man paying a call in a tailcoat is in a different element
altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness；
gazing immutably from behind a sheet of glass；
which was all that remained to her of Mr。 Ruskin。 He had
a singular face—a face built for swiftness and decision
rather than for massive contemplation； the forehead broad；
the nose long and formidable； the lips cleanshaven and
at once dogged and sensitive； the cheeks lean； with a
deeply running tide of red blood in them。 His eyes； expressive
now of the usual masculine impersonality and
authority； might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable
circumstances； for they were large； and of a clear；
brown color； they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and
speculate； but Katharine only looked at him to wonder
whether his face would not have e nearer the standard
of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side
whiskers。 In his spare build and thin； though healthy；
cheeks； she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul。 His
voice； she noticed； had a slight vibrating or creaking sound
in it； as he laid down the manuscript and said：
“You must be very proud of your family； Miss Hilbery。”
“Yes； I am；” Katharine answered； and she added； “Do
you think there’s anything wrong in that？”
“Wrong？ How should it be wrong？ It must be a bore；
though； showing your things to visitors；” he added reflectively。
“Not if the visitors like them。”
“Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors？” he proceeded。
“I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry；” Katharine
replied。
“No。 And that’s what I should hate。 I couldn’t bear my
grandfather to cut me out。 And； after all；” Denham went
on； glancing round him satirically； as Katharine thought；
10
Virginia Woolf
“it’s not your grandfather only。 You’re cut out all the way
round。 I suppose you e of one of the most distinguished
families in England。 There are the Warburtons
and the Mannings—and you’re related to the Otways；
aren’t you？ I read it all in some magazine；” he added。
“The Otways are my cousins；” Katharine replied。
“Well；” said Denham； in a final tone of voice； as if his
argument were proved。
“Well；” said Katharine； “I don’t see that you’ve proved
anything。”
Denham smiled； in a peculiarly provoking way。 He was
amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy
his oblivious； supercilious hostess； if he could not impress
her； though he would have preferred to impress her。
He sat silent； holding the precious little book of poems
unopened in his hands； and Katharine watched him； the
melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her
eyes as her annoyance faded。 She appeared to be considering
many things。 She had forgotten her duties。
“Well；” said Denham again； suddenly opening the little
book of poems； as though he had said all that he meant
to say or could； with propriety； say。 He turned over the
pages with great decision； as if he were judging the book
in its entirety； the printing and paper and binding； as
well as the poetry； and then； having satisfied himself of
its good or bad quality； he placed it on the writingtable；
and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which
had belonged to the soldier。
“But aren’t you proud of your family？” Katharine demanded。
“No；” said Denham。 “We’ve never done anything to be
proud of—unless you count paying one’s bills a matter
for pride。”
“That sounds rather dull；” Katharine remarked。
“You would think us horribly dull；” Denham agreed。
“Yes； I might find you dull； but I don’t think I should
find you ridiculous；” Katharine added； as if Denham had
actually brought that charge against her fami