You have yours too？” “You’re with me in mine。 You’re the thing I make up； you see。” “Oh； I see；” she sighed。 “That’s why it’s so impossible。” She turned upon him almost fiercely。 “You must try to stop it；” she said。 “I won’t；” he replied roughly； “because I—” He stopped。 He realized that the moment had e to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to 367 Night and Day impart to Mary Datchet； to Rodney upon the Embankment； to the drunken tramp upon the seat。 How should he offer it to Katharine？ He looked quickly at her。 He saw that she was only half attentive to him； only a section of her was exposed to him。 The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house。 Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table。 He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own。 “Because I love you； Katharine；” he said。 Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice； and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence。 He thought that she had detected his wish to leave her。 She had discerned the break in his resolution； the blankness in the heart of his vision。 It was true that he had been happier out in the street； thinking of her； than now that he was in the same room with her。 He looked at her with a guilty expression on his face。 But her look expressed neither disappointment nor reproach。 Her pose was easy； and she seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table。 Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her。 “You don’t believe me？” he said。 His tone was humble； and made her smile at him。 “As far as I understand you—but what should you advise me to do with this ring？” she asked； holding it out。 “I should advise you to let me keep it for you；” he replied； in the same tone of halfhumorous gravity。 “After what you’ve said； I can hardly trust you—unless you’ll unsay what you’ve said？” “Very well。 I’m not in love with you。” “But I think you are in love with me… 。 As I am with you；” she added casually enough。 “At least；” she said slipping her ring back to its old position； “what other word describes the state we’re in？” She looked at him gravely and inquiringly； as if in search of help。 “It’s when I’m with you that I doubt it； not when I’m alone；” he stated。 368 Virginia Woolf “So I thought；” she replied。 In order to explain to her his state of mind； Ralph recounted his experience with the photograph； the letter； and the flower picked at Kew。 She listened very seriously。 “And then you went raving about the streets；” she mused。 “Well； it’s bad enough。 But my state is worse than yours； because it hasn’t anything to do with facts。 It’s an hallucination； pure and simple—an intoxication… 。 One can be in love with pure reason？” she hazarded。 “Because if you’re in love with a vision； I believe that that’s what I’m in love with。” This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory to Ralph； but after the astonishing variations of his own sentiments during the past halfhour he could not accuse her of fanciful exaggeration。 “Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough；” he said almost bitterly。 The music； which had ceased； had now begun again； and the melody of Mozart seemed to express the easy and exquisite love of the two upstairs。 “Cassandra never doubted for a moment。 But we—” she glanced at him as if to ascertain his position； “we see each other only now and then—” “Like lights in a storm—” “In the midst of a hurricane；” she concluded； as the window shook beneath the pressure of the wind。 They listened to the sound in silence。 Here the door opened with considerable hesitation； and Mrs。 Hilbery’s head appeared； at first with an air of caution； but having made sure that she had admitted herself to the diningroom and not to some more unusual region； she came pletely inside and seemed in no way taken aback by the sight she saw。 She seemed； as usual； bound on some quest of her own which was interrupted pleasantly but strangely by running into one of those queer； unnecessary ceremonies that other people thought fit to indulge in。 “Please don’t let me interrupt you； Mr。—” she was at a loss； as usual； for the name； and Katharine thought that she did not recognize him。 “I hope you’ve found something nice to read；” she added； pointing to the book upon the table。 “Byron—ah； Byron。 I’ve known people who knew Lord Byron；” she said。 369 Night and Day Katharine； who had risen in some confusion； could not help smiling at the thought that her mother found it perfectly natural and desirable that her daughter should be reading Byron in the diningroom late at night alone with a strange young man。 She blessed a disposition that was so convenient； and felt tenderly towards her mother and her mother’s eccentricities。 But Ralph observed that although Mrs。 Hilbery held the book so close to her eyes she was not reading a word。 “My dear mother； why aren’t you in bed？” Katharine exclaimed； changing astonishingly in the space of a minute to her usual condition of authoritative good sense。 “Why are you wandering about？” “I’m sure I should like your poetry better than I like Lord Byron’s；” said Mrs。 Hilbery； addressing Ralph Denham。 “Mr。 Denham doesn’t write poetry； he has written articles for father； for the Review；” Katharine said； as if prompting her memory。 “Oh dear！ How dull！” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed； with a sudden laugh that rather puzzled her daughter。 Ralph found that she had turned upon him a gaze that was at once very vague and very perating。 “But I’m sure you read poetry at night。 I always judge by the expression of the eyes；” Mrs。