Night and Day | Page 3

Virginia Woolf
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This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

NIGHT AND DAY
BY
VIRGINIA WOOLF

TO VANESSA BELL BUT, LOOKING FOR A PHRASE, I FOUND
NONE TO STAND BESIDE YOUR NAME

NIGHT AND DAY

CHAPTER I
It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other
young ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea.
Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remaining
parts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposed between
Monday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with the
things one does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although
she was silent, she was evidently mistress of a situation which was
familiar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its way for the six
hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play any of her
unoccupied faculties. A single glance was enough to show that Mrs.
Hilbery was so rich in the gifts which make tea-parties of elderly
distinguished people successful, that she scarcely needed any help from
her daughter, provided that the tiresome business of teacups and bread
and butter was discharged for her.
Considering that the little party had been seated round the tea-table for
less than twenty minutes, the animation observable on their faces, and
the amount of sound they were producing collectively, were very
creditable to the hostess. It suddenly came into Katharine's mind that if
some one opened the door at this moment he would think that they
were enjoying themselves; he would think, "What an extremely nice
house to come into!" and instinctively she laughed, and said something
to increase the noise, for the credit of the house presumably, since she
herself had not been feeling exhilarated. At the very same moment,
rather to her amusement, the door was flung open, and a young man
entered the room. Katharine, as she shook hands with him, asked him,
in her own mind, "Now, do you think we're enjoying ourselves
enormously?" . . . "Mr. Denham, mother," she said aloud, for she saw
that her mother had forgotten his name.
That fact was perceptible to Mr. Denham also, and increased the
awkwardness which inevitably attends the entrance of a stranger into a
room full of people much at their ease, and all launched upon sentences.

At the same time, it seemed to Mr. Denham as if a thousand softly
padded doors had closed between him and the street outside. A fine
mist, the etherealized essence of the fog, hung visibly in the wide and
rather empty space of the drawing-room, all silver where the candles
were grouped on the tea-table, and ruddy again in the firelight. With the
omnibuses and cabs still running in his head, and his body still tingling
with his quick walk along the streets and in and out of traffic and
foot-passengers, this drawing-room seemed very remote and still; and
the faces of the elderly people were mellowed, at some distance from
each other, and had a bloom on them owing to the fact that the air in
the drawing-room was thickened by blue grains of mist. Mr. Denham
had come in as Mr. Fortescue, the eminent novelist, reached the middle
of a very long sentence. He kept this suspended while the newcomer sat
down, and Mrs. Hilbery deftly joined the severed parts by leaning
towards him and remarking:
"Now, what would you do if you were married to an engineer, and had
to live in Manchester, Mr. Denham?"
"Surely she could learn Persian," broke in a thin, elderly gentleman. "Is
there no retired schoolmaster or man of letters in Manchester with
whom she could read Persian?"
"A cousin of ours has married and gone
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