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reach these fabulous and fantastic characters？—for there
was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings
and noddings of Mrs。 Cosham； as if her equipment in
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Night and Day
cluded a large wire spring。 Her voice had a highpitched；
cooing note； which prolonged words and cut them short
until the English language seemed no longer fit for mon
purposes。 In a moment of nervousness； so Ralph
thought； Katharine had turned on innumerable electric
lights。 But Mrs。 Cosham had gained impetus （perhaps her
swaying movements had that end in view） for sustained
speech； and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and
elaborately。
“I e from Woking； Mr。 Popham。 You may well ask
me； why Woking？ and to that I answer； for perhaps the
hundredth time； because of the sunsets。 We went there
for the sunsets； but that was fiveandtwenty years ago。
Where are the sunsets now？ Alas！ There is no sunset now
nearer than the South Coast。” Her rich and romantic notes
were acpanied by a wave of a long white hand； which；
when waved； gave off a flash of diamonds； rubies； and
emeralds。 Ralph wondered whether she more resembled
an elephant； with a jeweled headdress； or a superb cockatoo；
balanced insecurely upon its perch； and pecking capriciously
at a lump of sugar。
“Where are the sunsets now？” she repeated。 “Do you
find sunsets now； Mr。 Popham？”
“I live at Highgate；” he replied。
“At Highgate？ Yes； Highgate has its charms； your Uncle
John lived at Highgate；” she jerked in the direction of
Katharine。 She sank her head upon her breast； as if for a
moment’s meditation； which past； she looked up and observed：
“I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate。
I can recollect walking with your mother； Katharine；
through lanes blossoming with wild hawthorn。 But where
is the hawthorn now？ You remember that exquisite description
in De Quincey； Mr。 Popham？—but I forget； you；
in your generation； with all your activity and enlightenment；
at which I can only marvel”—here she displayed
both her beautiful white hands—”do not read De Quincey。
You have your Belloc； your Chesterton； your Bernard
Shaw—why should you read De Quincey？”
“But I do read De Quincey；” Ralph protested； “more
than Belloc and Chesterton； anyhow。”
“Indeed！” exclaimed Mrs。 Cosham； with a gesture of
surprise and relief mingled。 “You are； then； a ‘rara avis’ in
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Virginia Woolf
your generation。 I am delighted to meet anyone who reads
De Quincey。”
Here she hollowed her hand into a screen； and； leaning
towards Katharine； inquired； in a very audible whisper；
“Does your friend write？”
“Mr。 Denham；” said Katharine； with more than her usual
clearness and firmness； “writes for the Review。 He is a
lawyer。”
“The cleanshaven lips； showing the expression of the
mouth！ I recognize them at once。 I always feel at home
with lawyers； Mr。 Denham—”
“They used to e about so much in the old days；”
Mrs。 Milvain interposed； the frail； silvery notes of her
voice falling with the sweet tone of an old bell。
“You say you live at Highgate；” she continued。 “I wonder
whether you happen to know if there is an old house
called Tempest Lodge still in existence—an old white
house in a garden？”
Ralph shook his head； and she sighed。
“Ah； no； it must have been pulled down by this time；
with all the other old houses。 There were such pretty
lanes in those days。 That was how your uncle met your
Aunt Emily； you know；” she addressed Katharine。 “They
walked home through the lanes。”
“A sprig of May in her bon；” Mrs。 Cosham ejaculated；
reminiscently。
“And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole。 And
that was how we guessed。”
Katharine laughed。 She looked at Ralph。 His eyes were
meditative； and she wondered what he found in this old
gossip to make him ponder so contentedly。 She felt； she
hardly knew why； a curious pity for him。
“Uncle John—yes； ‘poor John；’ you always called him。
Why was that？” she asked； to make them go on talking；
which； indeed； they needed little invitation to do。
“That was what his father； old Sir Richard； always called
him。 Poor John； or the fool of the family；” Mrs。 Milvain
hastened to inform them。 “The other boys were so brilliant；
and he could never pass his examinations； so they
sent him to India—a long voyage in those days； poor
fellow。 You had your own room； you know； and you did it
up。 But he will get his knighthood and a pension； I be
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Night and Day
lieve；” she said； turning to Ralph； “only it is not England。”
“No；” Mrs。 Cosham confirmed her； “it is not England。 In
those days we thought an Indian Judgeship about equal
to a countycourt judgeship at home。 His Honor—a pretty
title； but still； not at the top of the tree。 However；” she
sighed； “if you have a wife and seven children； and people
nowadays very quickly forget your father’s name—well；
you have to take what you can get；” she concluded。
“And I fancy；” Mrs。 Milvain resumed； lowering her voice
rather confidentially； “that John would have done more
if it hadn’t been for his wife； your Aunt Emily。 She was a
very good woman； devoted to him； of course； but she was
not ambitious for him； and if a wife isn’t ambitious for
her husband； especially in a profession like the law； clients
soon get to know of it。 In our young days； Mr。
Denham； we used to say that we knew which of our friends
would bee judges； by looking at the girls they married。
And so it was； and so； I fancy； it always will be。 I
don’t think；” she added； summing up these scattered remarks；
“that any man is really happy unless he succeeds
in his profession。”
Mrs。 Cosham approved of this sentiment with more ponderous
sagacity from her side of the teatable； in the first
place by swaying her head； and in the second by remarking：
“No； men are not the same as women。 I fancy Alfred
Tennyson spoke the truth about that as about many other
things。 How I wish he’d lived to write ‘The Prince’—a
sequel to �