Night and Day

blood in them. His eyes, expressive now of the usual masculine impersonality and authority, might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable circumstances, for they were large, and of a clear, brown color; they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and speculate; but Katharine only looked at him to wonder whether his face would not have come nearer the standard of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side-whiskers. In his spare build and thin, though healthy, cheeks, she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul. His voice, she noticed, had a slight vibrating or creaking sound in it, as he laid down the manuscript and said:
“You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery.”
“Yes, I am,” Katharine answered, and she added, “Do you think there’s anything wrong in that?”
“Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your things to visitors,” he added reflectively.
“Not if the visitors like them.”
“Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors?” he proceeded.
“I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry,” Katharine replied.
“No. And that’s what I should hate. I couldn’t bear my grandfather to cut me out. And, after all,” Denham went on, glancing round him satirically, as Katharine thought, “it’s not your grandfather only. You’re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the Mannings⁠—and you’re related to the Otways, aren’t you? I read it all in some magazine,” he added.
“The Otways are my cousins,” Katharine replied.
“Well,” said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were proved.
“Well,” said Katharine, “I don’t see that you’ve proved anything.”
Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her.
He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties.
“Well,” said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier.
“But aren’t you proud of your family?” Katharine demanded.
“No,” said Denham. “We’ve never done anything to be proud of⁠—unless you count paying one’s bills a matter for pride.”
“That sounds rather dull,” Katharine remarked.
“You would think us horribly dull,” Denham agreed.
“Yes, I might find you dull, but I don’t think I should find you ridiculous,” Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family.
“No⁠—because we’re not in the least ridiculous. We’re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate.”
“We don’t live at Highgate, but we’re middle class too, I suppose.”
Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath.
“That belonged to Clive, so we say,” said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically.
“Is it a lie?” Denham inquired.
“It’s a family tradition. I don’t know that we can prove it.”
“You see, we don’t have traditions in our family,” said Denham.
“You sound very dull,” Katharine remarked, for the second time.
“Merely middle class,” Denham replied.
“You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don’t see why you should despise us.”
 Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive.
“I shouldn’t like to be you; that’s all I said,” he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could.
“No, but one never would like to be anyone else.”
“I should. I should like to be lots of other people.”
“Then why not us?” Katharine asked.
Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather’s armchair, drawing her great-uncle’s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten.
“You’ll never know anything at first hand,” he began, almost savagely. “It’s all been done for you. You’ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries.”
“Go on,” Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them.
“Of course, I don’t know how you spend your time,” he continued, a little stiffly, “but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren’t you? And this kind of thing”⁠—he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter⁠—“must take up a lot of time.”
She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash.
“You’ve got it very nearly right,” she said, “but I only help my mother. I don’t write myself.”
“Do you do anything yourself?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “I don’t leave the house at ten and come back at six.”
“I don’t mean that.”
 Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do