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