Night and Day
Virginia Woolf
Paperback
(Independently published, Aug. 23, 2020)
It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladies of herclass, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thusoccupied, and the remaining parts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposedbetween Monday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with the thingsone does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although she was silent, she wasevidently mistress of a situation which was familiar enough to her, and inclined to let ittake its way for the six hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play any of herunoccupied faculties. A single glance was enough to show that Mrs. Hilbery was so rich inthe gifts which make tea-parties of elderly distinguished people successful, that shescarcely needed any help from her daughter, provided that the tiresome business ofteacups and bread and butter was discharged for her.Considering that the little party had been seated round the tea-table for less than twentyminutes, the animation observable on their faces, and the amount of sound they wereproducing collectively, were very creditable to the hostess. It suddenly came intoKatharine’s mind that if some one opened the door at this moment he would think that theywere 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 thehouse presumably, since she herself had not been feeling exhilarated. At the very samemoment, rather to her amusement, the door was flung open, and a young man entered theroom. Katharine, as she shook hands with him, asked him, in her own mind, “Now, do youthink we’re enjoying ourselves enormously?”... “Mr. Denham, mother,” she said aloud, forshe saw that her mother had forgotten his name.That fact was perceptible to Mr. Denham also, and increased the awkwardness whichinevitably 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 athousand 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 thedrawing-room, all silver where the candles were grouped on the tea-table, and ruddy againin the firelight. With the omnibuses and cabs still running in his head, and his body stilltingling 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 weremellowed, at some distance from each other, and had a bloom on them owing to the factthat the air in the drawing-room was thickened by blue grains of mist. Mr. Denham hadcome 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 thesevered parts by leaning towards him and remarking:“Now, what would you do if you were married to an engineer, and had to live inManchester, Mr. Denham?”