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natural instinct for an upstart or a pretender； and knew
to a hairbreadth what literature should be and what it
should not be。 She was born to the knowledge； and scarcely
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thought it a matter to be proud of。
“Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction；” she announced
positively。
“There’s the wellknown case of Hamlet；” Mr。 Hilbery
interposed； in his leisurely； halfhumorous tones。
“Ah； but poetry’s different； Trevor；” said Aunt Eleanor；
as if she had special authority from Shakespeare to say
so。 “Different altogether。 And I’ve never thought； for my
part； that Hamlet was as mad as they make out。 What is
your opinion； Mr。 Peyton？” For； as there was a minister of
literature present in the person of the editor of an esteemed
review； she deferred to him。
Mr。 Peyton leant a little back in his chair； and； putting
his head rather on one side； observed that that was a question
that he had never been able to answer entirely to his
satisfaction。 There was much to be said on both sides； but
as he considered upon which side he should say it； Mrs。
Hilbery broke in upon his judicious meditations。
“Lovely； lovely Ophelia！” she exclaimed。 “What a wonderful
power it is—poetry！ I wake up in the morning all
bedraggled； there’s a yellow fog outside； little Emily turns
on the electric light when she brings me my tea； and
says； ‘Oh； ma’am； the water’s frozen in the cistern； and
cook’s cut her finger to the bone。’ And then I open a little
green book； and the birds are singing； the stars shining；
the flowers twinkling—” She looked about her as if these
presences had suddenly manifested themselves round her
diningroom table。
“Has the cook cut her finger badly？” Aunt Eleanor demanded；
addressing herself naturally to Katharine。
“Oh； the cook’s finger is only my way of putting it；”
said Mrs。 Hilbery。 “But if she had cut her arm off； Katharine
would have sewn it on again；” she remarked； with an
affectionate glance at her daughter； who looked； she
thought； a little sad。 “But what horrid； horrid thoughts；”
she wound up； laying down her napkin and pushing her
chair back。 “e； let us find something more cheerful
to talk about upstairs。”
Upstairs in the drawingroom Cassandra found fresh
sources of pleasure； first in the distinguished and expectant
look of the room； and then in the chance of exercising
her diviningrod upon a new assortment of human
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Night and Day
beings。 But the low tones of the women； their meditative
silences； the beauty which； to her at least； shone even
from black satin and the knobs of amber which encircled
elderly necks； changed her wish to chatter to a more subdued
desire merely to watch and to whisper。 She entered
with delight into an atmosphere in which private matters
were being interchanged freely； almost in monosyllables；
by the older women who now accepted her as one of
themselves。 Her expression became very gentle and sympathetic；
as if she； too； were full of solicitude for the
world which was somehow being cared for； managed and
deprecated by Aunt Maggie and Aunt Eleanor。 After a time
she perceived that Katharine was outside the munity
in some way； and； suddenly； she threw aside her wisdom
and gentleness and concern and began to laugh。
“What are you laughing at？” Katharine asked。
A joke so foolish and unfilial wasn’t worth explaining。
“It was nothing—ridiculous—in the worst of taste； but
still； if you half shut your eyes and looked—” Katharine
half shut her eyes and looked； but she looked in the wrong
direction； and Cassandra laughed more than ever； and
was still laughing and doing her best to explain in a
whisper that Aunt Eleanor； through halfshut eyes； was
like the parrot in the cage at Stogdon House； when the
gentlemen came in and Rodney walked straight up to
them and wanted to know what they were laughing at。
“I utterly refuse to tell you！” Cassandra replied； standing
up straight； clasping her hands in front of her； and
facing him。 Her mockery was delicious to him。 He had
not even for a second the fear that she had been laughing
at him。 She was laughing because life was so adorable；
so enchanting。
“Ah； but you’re cruel to make me feel the barbarity of
my sex；” he replied； drawing his feet together and pressing
his fingertips upon an imaginary operahat or malacca
cane。 “We’ve been discussing all sorts of dull things；
and now I shall never know what I want to know more
than anything in the world。”
“You don’t deceive us for a minute！” she cried。 “Not for
a second。 We both know that you’ve been enjoying yourself
immensely。 Hasn’t he； Katharine？”
“No；” she replied； “I think he’s speaking the truth。 He
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doesn’t care much for politics。”
Her words； though spoken simply； produced a curious
change in the light； sparkling atmosphere。 William at once
lost his look of animation and said seriously：
“I detest politics。”
“I don’t think any man has the right to say that；” said
Cassandra； almost severely。
“I agree。 I mean that I detest politicians；” he corrected
himself quickly。
“You see； I believe Cassandra is what they call a Feminist；”
Katharine went on。 “Or rather； she was a Feminist
six months ago； but it’s no good supposing that she is
now what she was then。 That is one of her greatest charms
in my eyes。 One never can tell。” She smiled at her as an
elder sister might smile。
“Katharine； you make one feel so horribly small！”
Cassandra exclaimed。
“No； no； that’s not what she means；” Rodney interposed。
“I quite agree that women have an immense advantage
over us there。 One misses a lot by attempting to know
things thoroughly。”
“He knows Greek thoroughly；” said Katharine。 “But then
he also knows a good deal about painting； and a certain
amount about music。 He’s very cultivated—perhaps the
most cultivated person I know。”
“And poetry；” Cassandra added。
“Yes； I was forgetting his play；” Katharine remark