 CHAPTER XIII over two years passed, and the Schlagel household continued to lead its life of cultured but not ignoble ease, still swimming gracefully on the gray tides of London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a continual flux, while her shallows washed more widely against the hills of Surrey and over the fields of Hartfordshire. This famous building had arisen that was doomed. Today, Whitehall had been transformed. It would be the turn of Regent Street tomorrow, and month by month the roads smelt more strongly of petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human beings heard each other speak with greater difficulty, breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Together withdrew the leaves were falling by mid-summer, the sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity. To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the literature of the near future will probably ignore the country and seek inspiration from the town. One can understand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces, the public has heard a little too much. They seem Victorian, while London is Georgian, and those who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long, ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly London fascinates. One visualizes it as a tract of quivering gray, intelligent without purpose, and excitable without love, as a spirit that has altered before it can be chronicled, as a heart that certainly beats but with no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything. Nature with all her cruelty comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself, the earth is explicable. From her we come, and we must return to her, but who can explain Westminster Bridge Road, or Liverpool Street in the morning? The city inhaling, or the same thoroughfares in the evening, the city exhaling her exhausted air. We reach in desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the voids of the universe are ransacked to justify the monster and stamped with a human face. London is religion's opportunity, not the decorous religion of theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous flow would be tolerable if a man of our own sort, not anyone pompous or tearful, were caring for us up in the sky. The Londoner seldom understands his city, until it sweeps him too away from his moorings, and Margaret's eyes were not opened until the lease of Wickham Place expired. She had always known that it must expire, but the knowledge only became vivid about nine months before the event. Then the house was suddenly ringed with pathos. It had seemed so much happiness, why had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city she noted for the first time the architecture of hurry, and heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its inhabitants, clipped words, formless sentences, potted expressions of approval or disgust, month by month things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population still rose, but what was the quality of the men born? The particular millionaire who owned the freehold of Wickham Place and desired to erect Babylonian flats upon it. What right had he to stir so large a portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool. She had heard him expose socialism, but true insight began just where his intelligence ended, and one gathered that this was the case with most millionaires. What right had such men? But Margaret checked herself. That way lies madness. In goodness she too had some money and could purchase a new home. Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down for the Easter vacation, and Margaret took the opportunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn't know that he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do? He was equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked that he should prefer to be quite free of any profession. It was not shocked, but went on sewing for a few minutes before she replied. I was thinking of Mr. Weiss. He never strikes me as particularly happy. Yes, said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious quiver as if he too had thoughts of Mr. Weiss, had seen round, through, over, and beyond Mr. Weiss, had waited Mr. Weiss, grouped him, and finally dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the subject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby's infuriated Helen. But Helen was now down in the dining room, preparing a speech about political economy. At times her voice could be heard declaiming through the floor. But Mr. Weiss is rather a wretched, ready man, don't you think? Then there's Guy. That was a pitiful business, besides shifting to the general. Everyone is the better for some regular work, groans. I shall stick to it, she continued, smiling. I'm not saying it to educate you. It is what I really think. I believe that in the last century, men have developed the desire for work and they must not starve it. It's a new desire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in itself that's good. And I hope that for women too, not to work, will soon become as shocking as not to be married was a hundred years ago. I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude, enunciated Tibby. Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm not going to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like most and see how they've arranged them. I like Guy and Mr. Weiss most, said Tibby faintly, and lent so far back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat. And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use the traditional arguments, making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on, all of which are for various reasons, can't, she sowed on. I'm only your sister. I haven't any authority over you and I don't want to have any just to put before you what I think the truth. You see, she shook off the ponsonnets to which she had recently taken. In a few years, we shall be the same age practically and I shall want you to help me. Men are so much nicer than women. Laboring under such a delusion, why do you not marry? I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance. Has nobody asked you? Only ninnies. Do people ask Helen? Plentifully. Tell me about them. No. Tell me about your ninnies then. They were men who had nothing better to do, said his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this point. So take warning, you must work or else you must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, work if you'd save your soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes. Look at Mr. Pembroke with all their defects of temper and understanding. Such men give me more pleasure than many who are better equipped and I think it is because they have worked regularly and honestly. Spare me the Wilcoxes, he moaned. I shall not. They are the right sort. Oh, goodness me, Meg, he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and angry. To me, for all his defects had a genuine personality. Well, they're as near the right sort as you can imagine. No, no. Oh, no. I was thinking of the younger son whom I once classed as a nanny but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He's gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me, out to his duty, duty, always elicited, grown. He doesn't want the money. It is work he wants, though it is beastly work. Dull country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A nation who can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder England has become an empire. Empire. I can't bother over results, said Margaret, a little sadly. They are too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An empire bores me so far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are laboring to make London what it is, he sneered. What it is, worst luck. I want activity without civilization. How paradoxical. Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven. And I, said Tibi, want civilization without activity, which I expect is what we shall find in the other place. You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibi Kins, if you want that. You can find it at Oxford. Stupid. If I'm stupid, get me back to the house hunting. I'll even live in Oxford if you like, North Oxford. I'll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Sheltonham. Oh yes, or Ilfricôme, and Swanage, and Tumbridge Wells, and Serbeton, and Bedford. They're on no account. London, then. I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there's no reason we shouldn't have a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course, oh, how one does monder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor, how do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me. As she spoke, the door was flung open and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement. Oh my dears, what do you think? You'll never guess. A woman's been here asking me for her husband. Her what? Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise. Yes, for her husband, and it really is so. Not anything to do with Bracknell? Cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. I offered Bracknell and he was rejected. So was Tibi, cheer up, Tibi. It's no one we know. I said, hunt, my good woman, have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimicassers. Husband, husband. Oh, and she's so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier. Now Helen, what did happen really? What I say, I was as it were orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool and shows a female straight in on me with my mouth open. Then we began very civilly. I want my husband. What I have reason to believe is here. No, how unjust one is. She said, whom? Not what, she got it perfectly. So I said, name please. And she said, lan, miss. And there we were. Lan? Lan or lan. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanalene. What an extraordinary. I said, my good Mrs. Lanalene, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty and never, never has Mr. Lanalene rusted his eyes on mine. I hope you were pleased, said Tibby. Of course, Helen squeaked. A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanalene's a dear. She asked for her husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn't seem the same. No, no more did lunch. And so she strolled up to two wiccan place as being the most likely place for the missing article. But how on earth don't begin on how earthing? I know what I know. She kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew and others didn't. And if they didn't, then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent. She had a face like a silk worm in the dining room wreaks of Oris root. We chatted pleasantly, a little about husbands. And I wondered where hers was too and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanalene's a naughty, naughty man and hasn't no business to go on the Lardida. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bag's eye writing to Anjuli about this. Now Meg remember, bag's eye. Bag it by all means, murmured Margaret putting down her work. I'm not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn't it? I don't think so. She doesn't really mind. The unmarable creature isn't capable of tragedy. Her husband may be though, said Margaret, moving to the window. Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. Lanalene. Was she pretty? Her figure may have been good once. The flats, their only outlook hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared fantastically that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor into nearer contact with such episodes as these. Tiffy and I have again been wondering where we'll live next September, she said at last. Tiffy had better first wonder what he'll do, retorted Helen, and that topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea, Helen went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one too, for they were going out to a discussion society on the morrow, but her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lanalene had risen out of the abyss like a faint smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had both decayed. End of chapter 13, recording by Sage Turtle of Quirkynomads.com. Chapter 14 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kristen McQuillan. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 14. The mystery like so many mysteries was explained. Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of the Porofren Fire Insurance Company, thus much from his card. He had come about the lady yesterday, thus much from Annie, who had shown him into the dining room. Cheers, children, cried Helen, it's Mrs. Lanalene. Tidby was interested. The three hurried downstairs to find not the gay dog they had expected, but a young man, colorless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes above a drooping mustache that are so common in London, and that haunt some straits of the city like accusing presences. One guessed him as the third generation, grandson, to the shepherd or plow boy whom civilization had sucked into the town, as one of the thousands who've lost the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him more than a hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight and the chest that might have broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for a tailcoat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks, she had doubted whether it humanized the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very well, the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which she would address her. She was only unprepared for an example of her own visiting card. You wouldn't remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel, he said, uneasily familiar. No, I can't say I do. Well, that was how it happened, you see. Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute, I don't remember. It was a concert at the Queen's Hall. I think you will recollect, he added pretentiously, when I tell you that it included a performance of the fifth symphony of Beethoven. We hear the fifth practically every time it's done, so I'm not sure. Do you remember, Helen? Was it the time that the sandy cat walked around the ballstread? He thought not. Then I don't remember. That's the only Beethoven I ever remember especially. And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently, of course. Likely enough, Helen laughed, for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back? Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel. Then the mistake arose out of my car, did it? Interposed Margaret. Yes, the mistake arose. It was a mistake. The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that she could find you. She continued, pushing him forward, for though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. That's so calling to a mistake. Then why, began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. I said to my wife, he continued more rapidly, I said to Mrs. Bast, I have to pay a call on some friends. And Mrs. Bast said to me, do go. While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business and thought I had come here owing to the card. And so came after me, and I begged to tender my apologies and hers as well for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you. No inconvenience, said Helen, but I still don't understand. An era of evasion characterized Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn't see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister's pressure, she said, I still don't understand. When did you say you paid this call? Call or what call? He said, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favorite device of those in midstream. This afternoon call, in the afternoon, of course, he replied, and looked at Tibi to see how the repartee went. But Tibi, himself, a repartee, was unsympathetic and said, Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon? Saturday? Really, said Helen, and you were still calling on Sunday when your wife came here, a long visit. I don't call that fair, said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. I know what you mean, and it isn't so. Oh, don't let us mind, said Margaret, distressed again by odors from the abyss. It was something else, he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. I was somewhere else to what you think, so there. It was good of you to come and explain, she said. The rest is naturally no concern of ours. Yes, but I want, I wanted. Have you ever read the ordeal of Richard Farrell? Margaret nodded, it's a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don't you see, like Richard does in the end? Or have you ever read Stevenson's Prince Otto? Helen and Tibi groaned gently. That's another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I wanted, he mouthed effectively, then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. I walked all a Saturday night, said Leonard. I walked. A thrill of approval ran through the sisters, but culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever read Evie Lucas's Open Road, said Helen. No doubt it's another beautiful book, but I'd rather hear about your road. Oh, I walked. How far? I don't know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch. Were you walking alone, may I ask? Yes, he said, straightening himself, but we've been talking it over at the office. There's been a lot of talk at the office lately about these things. The fellow's there, said one steers by the pole star, and I looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed. Oh, don't talk to me about the pole star, interrupted Helen, who was becoming interested. I know it's little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after it. Well, I lost it entirely. First of all, the street lamps, then the trees, and towards morning I got cloudy. Tibi, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew that this fellow would never attain to poetry and did not want to hear him trying. Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than they knew. In his absence, they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. Where did you start from? cried Margaret. Do tell us more. I took the underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of the office, I said to myself, I must have a walk once in a way. If I don't take this walk now, I shall never take it. I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then, but not good country there, is it? It was gas lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night and being out was the great thing. I did get into the woods too, presently. Yes, go on, said Helen. You've no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it's dark. Did you actually go off the roads? Oh yes, I always meant to go off the roads, but the worst of it is that it's more difficult to find once way. Mr. Bast, your born adventurer, laughed Margaret. No professional athlete would have attempted what you've done. It's a wonder your walk didn't end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say? Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses, said Helen. Besides, they can't walk, it tires them. Go on. I felt like RLS. You probably remember Helen Virginivus. Yes, but the wood, this year wood, how did you get out of it? I managed one wood and found a road the other side, which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was those north downs, for the road went off into the grass and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I did wish I'd never come, but suddenly it got light, just while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road down to a station and I took the first train I could back to London. But was the dawn wonderful? Asked Helen. With unforgettable sincerity, he replied, no. The word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, down toppled tiresome RLS and the love of the earth and his silk top hat. In the presence of these women, Leonard had arrived and he spoke with a flow and exultation that he had seldom known. The dawn was only gray, it was nothing to mention. Just a gray evening turned upside down I know. And I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it and so cold too. I'm glad I did it and yet at the time it bored me more than I can say. And besides, you can believe me or not as you choose, I was very hungry. That dinner at Wimbledon, I meant it to last me all night like other dinners. I never thought that walking would make such a difference. But when you're walking you want, as it were, a breakfast and lunch and tea during the night as well and I had nothing but a packet of woodbines. Lord did I feel bad. Looking back, it wasn't what you may call enjoyment. It was more a case of sticking to it. I did stick, I was determined. Oh, hang it all, what's the good? I mean the good of living in a room forever. There one goes on day after day, same old game, same up and down to town until you forget there is any other game. You ought to see once in a way what's going on outside even if it's nothing particular after all. I should just think you ought, said Helen, sitting on the edge of the table. The sound of a lady's voice we called him from sincerity and he said, curious it should all come about from reading something of Richard Jeffries. Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you're wrong there. It didn't, it came from something far greater. But she could not stop him. Borough was imminent after Jeffries. Borough, Thoreau and Sorrow. RLS brought up the rear and the outburst ended in a swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names, the fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for signposts and are not to blame if in our weakness we mistake the signpost for the destination. And Leonard had reached the destination. He had visited the country of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities and its cozy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every 12 hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater than Jeffries' books, the spirit that had led Jeffries to write them. And his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borough's Stonehenge. Then you don't think I was foolish? He asked, becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom nature had intended him. Heaven's no, replied Margaret. Heaven help us if we do, replied Helen. I'm very glad you say that. Now my wife would never understand not if I explained it for days. No, it wasn't foolish, cried Helen, her eyes aflame. You've pushed back the boundaries, I think it's splendid of you. You've not been content to dream as we have, though we've walked, too. I must show you a picture upstairs. Here the doorbell rang. The handsome had come to take them to their evening party. Oh, bother, not to say dash. I'd forgotten we were dining out. But, dude, do come round again and have a talk. Yes, you must do, echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied, No, I shall not. It's better like this. Why better, asked Margaret. No, it's better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really, I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it. That's a rather sad view of life, surely. Things so often get spoiled. I know, flashed Helen, but people don't. He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn't wrong, but it wasn't right, on a false note-jard. One little twist they felt and the instrument might be in tune, one little strain, and it might be silent forever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment's awkwardness, and then Helen said, Go then, perhaps you know best. But never forget, you're better than Jeffries. And he went. Their handsome caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares. Gas lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendor and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the clear-cut armies of pure air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders very much part of the picture. He was a gray life, and to brighten it, he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlagels, or to speak more accurately, his interview with them, were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though the worst of outlets for instinct would not be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he'd scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he had ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge where a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They'd gotten into conversation and gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles, and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a friendship, had asked him to coffee after haul, which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy and took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want romance to collide with the Peruvian, still less with Jackie, and people with fuller, happier lives are slow to understand this. To the Schlagels, as to the undergraduate, he was an interesting creature of whom they wanted to see more. But they, to him, were denizens of romance who must be kept to the corner he had assigned them, pictures that must not walk out of their frames. His behavior over Margaret's visiting card had been typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage, where there is no money and no inclination to violence tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his wife and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor were enough. Here that card had come in. Leonard, the furtive, was untidy and had left it lying about. Jackie found it and then began, what's that card, eh? Yes, don't you wish you knew what that card was? Len, who's Miss Schlagel, et cetera. Months passed and the card, now as a joke, now as a grievance, was handed about getting dirtier and dirtier. It followed them when they moved from Cornelia Road to Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A few inches of passport, it became the battlefield on which the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why did he not say, a lady took my umbrella, another gave me this that I might call for my umbrella? Because Jackie would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly because he was sentimental. No affection gathered round the card, but it symbolized the life of culture that Jackie should never spoil. At night he would say to himself, well at all events she doesn't know about that card. Yep, done her there. Poor Jackie, she was not a bad sort and had a great deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion. She was only capable of drawing one conclusion and then the fullness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday Leonard had refused to speak to her and had spent the evening observing the stars. On the Saturday he went up as usual to town but had not come back Saturday night nor Sunday morning nor Sunday afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable and though she was now of a retiring habit and shy of women, she went up to Wiccan Place. Leonard returned in her absence. The card, the fatal card, was gone from the pages of Reskin and he guessed what had happened. Well, he had exclaimed greeting her with peels of laughter, I know where you've been but you don't know where I've been. Jackie sighed and said, Len I do think you might explain. And resumed domesticity. Explanations were difficult at this stage and Leonard was too silly or it is tempting to write too sound a chap to attempt them. His reticence was not entirely the shoddy article that a business life promotes. The reticence that pretends that nothing is something and hides behind the Daily Telegraph. The adventure also is reticent and it is an adventure for a clerk to walk for a few hours in darkness. You may laugh at him, you who have slept nights on the belt with your rifle beside you and all the atmosphere of adventure past and you may also laugh who think adventure's silly but do not be surprised if Leonard is shy whenever he meets you and if the Schlegels rather than Jackie hear about the dawn. That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became a permanent joy. He was at his best when he thought of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home beneath the fading heavens. Somehow the barrios of wealth had fallen and there had been he could not phrase it a general assertion of the wonder of the world. My conviction says the mystic gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it and they had agreed that there was something beyond life's daily gray. He took off his top hat and smoothed it thoughtfully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown to be books literature, clever conversation, culture. One raised oneself by study and got upsides with the world but in that quick interchange a new light dawned. Was that something walking in the dark among the suburban hills? He discovered that he was going bear headed down Regent Street. London came back with a rush. Few were about at this hour but all whom he passed looked at him with a hostility that was the more impressive because it was unconscious. He put his hat on. It was too big. His head disappeared like a pudding into a basin. The ears bending outward at the touch of the curly brim. He wore it a little backwards and its effect was to greatly elongate the face and to bring out the distance between the eyes and the mustache. Thus equipped he escaped criticism. No one felt uneasy as he tipped along the pavements the heart of a man ticking fast in his chest. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kristen McQuillan. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 15. The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure and when they were both full of the same subject there were a few dinner parties that could stand up against them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had more kick in it than most but succumbed after a struggle. Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else. And somewhere about the entree their monologues collided, fell ruining and became common property. Nor was this all. The dinner party was really an informal discussion club. There was a paper after it, read amid coffee cups and laughter in the drawing room but dealing more or less thoughtfully with some topic of general interest. After the paper came a debate and in this debate Mr. Bast also figured appearing now as a bright spot in civilization and now as a dark spot according to the temperament of the speaker. The subject of the paper had been how ought I to dispose of my money? The reader professing to be a millionaire on the point of death inclined to bequeath her fortune for the foundation of local art galleries but open to conviction from other sources. The various parts had been assigned beforehand and some of the speeches were amusing. The hostess assumed the ungrateful role of the millionaire's eldest son and implored her expiring parent not to dislocate society by allowing such vast sums to pass out of the family. Money was the fruit of self-denial and the second generation had a right to profit by the self-denial of the first. What right had Mr. Bast to profit? The National Gallery was good enough for the likes of him. After property had had its say, a saying that is necessarily ungracious, the various philanthropists stepped forward. Something must be done for Mr. Bast. His conditions must be improved without impairing his independence. He must have a free library or free tennis courts. His rent must be paid in such a way that he did not know it was being paid. It must be made worth his wild to join the territorials. He must be forcibly parted from his uninspiring wife, the money going to her as compensation. He must be assigned a twin star, some member of the leisure classes who would watch over him ceaselessly, groans from Helen. He must be given food but no clothes. Clothes but no food. A third return ticket to Venice without either food or clothes when he arrived there. In short, he might be given anything and everything so long as it was not the money itself. And here Margaret interrupted. Order, order, Miss Schlegel, said the reader of the paper. You are here, I understand, to advise me on the interests of the society for the preservation of places of historic interest or natural beauty. I cannot have you speaking out of your role. It makes my poor head go round and I think you forget that I am very ill. Your head won't go round if you'll only listen to my argument, said Margaret. Why not give him the money itself? You're supposed to have about 30,000 a year. Have I? I thought I had a million. Wasn't a million your capital? Dear me, we ought to have settled that. Still, it doesn't matter. Whatever you've got, I order you to give as many poor men as you can 300 a year each. But that would be popularizing them, said an earnest girl who liked the Schlegels but thought them a little unspiritual at times. Not if you give them so much. A big windfall would not popularize a man. It's these little driblets distributed among too many to do the harm. Money's educational. It's far more educational than the things it buys. There was a protest. In a sense, added Margaret, but the protest continued. Well, isn't the most civilized thing going the man who's learned to wear his income properly? Exactly what your Mr. Bast's won't do. Give them a chance. Give them money. Don't dole them out poetry books and railway tickets like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. When your socialism comes, it may be different and we may think in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it comes, give people cash. For it is the warp of civilization, whatever the wolf may be. The imagination ought to play upon money and realize it vividly for it's the second most important thing in the world. It's so sloughed over and hushed up. There is so little clear thinking. Oh, political economy, of course, but so few of us think clearly about our own private incomes and admit the independent thoughts are in nine cases out of 10 the result of independent means. Money, give Mr. Bast money and don't bother about his ideals. He'll pick those up for himself. She lent back while the more earnest members of the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation and Ms. Schlegel was asked how ever could she say such dreadful things and what would it profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul? She answered, nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world. Then they said, no, they did not believe it. And she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense where the effort will be taken for the deed. But she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world and will ever know the rarer joys of the body or attain to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked the fabric of society, property, interest, et cetera. She only fixed her eyes on a few human beings to see how under present conditions they could be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless. The many colored efforts there too spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in a universal gray. To do good to one, or as in this case to a few, was the utmost she dare hope for. Between the idealists and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her and in keeping the administration of the millionaire's money in their own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of personal supervision and mutual help, the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire's legates. Margaret weakly admitted the claim. And another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire's housemaid for over 40 years. Overfed and underpaid was nothing to be done for her so corpulent and poor. The millionaire then read out her last will and testament in which she left the whole of her fortune to the chancellor of the exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful, in a men's debate, is the reverse more general? But the meeting broke up hilariously enough and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone, they were conscious of an alleviation and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plain trees following the line of the embankment struck a note of dignity that's rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentle folk in evening dress who'd strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There's something continental about Chelsea embankment. It's an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theater, an opera house in which some endless trilogy was performing and they themselves, a pair of satisfied subscribers who did not mind losing a little of the second act. Cold? No. Tired? Doesn't matter. The earnest girl's train rumbled away over the bridge. I say, Helen, well, are we really going to follow up, Mr. Bast? I don't know. I think we won't, as you like. It's no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn't play at friendship. No, it's no good. There's Mrs. Lanolin too, Helen yawned. So dull, just so, and possibly worse than dull. I should like to know how he got hold of your card. But he said something about a concert and an umbrella. Then did the card see the wife? Helen, come to bed. No, just a little longer. It's so beautiful. Tell me, oh yes. Did you say money is the warp of the world? Yes. Then what's the wolf? Very much what one chooses, said Margaret. It's something that isn't money. One can't say more. Walking at night? Probably. For Tibi Oxford, it seems so. For you? Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it's that. For Mrs. Wilcox, it was certainly Howard's end. One's own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard his, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. It's sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people, continued Margaret. Why, Meg, they're so much nicer generally. I'd rather think of that forester's house in Pomerania than of the fat, hair-forced meister who lived in it. I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows, the easier it becomes to replace them. It's one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring more for a place. Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. How do you do, he cried. I thought I recognized your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here? His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man's equipment. What an age it is since I've seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the tube though lately. I hope you have good news of your son. Paul? Said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette and sitting down between them. Oh, Paul's all right. We had a line from Madeira. He'll be at work again by now. Oh, said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. I beg your pardon. Isn't the climate of Nigeria too horrible? Someone's got to go, he said simply. England will never keep her trade overseas unless she's prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, untold complications may follow. Now, tell me all your news. Oh, we've had a splendid evening, cried Helen, who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret and I, all women, but there's a discussion after. This evening it was on how one ought to leave one's money, whether to one's family or to the poor. And if so, how? Oh, most interesting. The man of business smiled. Since his wife's death, he had almost doubled his income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on company prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the river Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So wonderful to the girls it held no mysteries for him. He had helped to shorten its long title trough by taking shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and the other capitalists thought good, someday it could be shortened again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the ropes of life and that what he did not know could not be worth knowing. Sounds a most original entertainment, he exclaimed and laughed in his pleasant way. I wish Evie would go in for that sort of thing, but she hasn't the time. She's taken to breed Aberdeen terriers, jolly little dogs. I expect we'd be better doing the same, really. We pretend we're improving ourselves, you see, said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is not the kind that returns, and she had bitter memories of the days when a speech such as he had just made would have impressed her favorably. We suppose it's a good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight over a debate, but as my sister says, it may be better to breed dogs. Not at all, I don't agree with your sister. There's nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often wish I'd gone in for them when I was a youngster, would have helped me no end. Quickness? Yes, quickness and argument. Time after time, I've missed scoring a point because the other man has had the gift of gab and I haven't. Oh, I believe in these discussions. The patronizing tone, thought Margaret, came well enough from a man who was old enough to be their father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox had a charm. In times of sorrow or emotional, his inadequacy had pained her, but it was pleasant to listen to him now and to watch his thick brown moustache and high forehead confronting the stars. But Helen was netdled. The aim of their debates, she implied, was truth. Oh, yes, it doesn't much matter what subject you take, said he. Margaret laughed and said, but this is going to be far better than the debate itself. Helen recovered herself and laughed too. No, I won't go on, she said. I'll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox. About Mr. Bast, yes, do. He'll be more lenient to a special case. But Mr. Wilcox do first light another cigarette. It's this. We've just come across a young fellow who's evidently very poor, who seems interest, what's his profession? Clerk. What in? Do you remember Margaret? Porphyry on Fire Insurance Company. Oh yes, the nice people who gave Aunt Julia a new heartthrug. He seems interesting, in some ways very, and one wishes one could help him. He's married to a wife, whom he doesn't seem to care for much. He likes books, and what one may roughly call adventure, and if he had a chance. But he is so poor, he lives a life where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too strong for him, and that he will sink. Well, he got mixed up in our debate. He wasn't the subject of it, but it seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a millionaire died and desired to leave money to help such a man. How should he be helped? Should he be given 300 pounds a year direct, which was Margaret's plan? Most of them thought this would popularize him. Should he and those like him be given free libraries? I said no, he doesn't want more books to read, but to read books rightly. My suggestion was that he'd be given something every year towards a summer holiday. But then there is his wife, and they said she would have to go too. Nothing seemed quite right. Now what do you think? Imagine that you were a millionaire and wanted to help the poor, what would you do? Mr. Wilcox, his fortune was not so very far below the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. My dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan to the numerous excellent ones that have been already suggested. My only contribution is this. Let your young friend clear out at the Porphyrian Fire Insurance Company with all possible speed. Why? Said Margaret. He lowered his voice. This is between friends. It'll be in the receiver's hands before Christmas. It'll smash, he added, thinking that she had not understood. Dear me, Helen, listen to that, and he'll have to get another place. We'll have. Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let him get one now. Rather than wait to make sure? Decidedly. Why's that? Again, the Olympian laugh and the lowered voice. Naturally, the man who's in a situation when he applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position than the man who isn't. It looks as if he's worth something. I know by myself, this is letting you into state secrets. It affects an employer greatly. Human nature, I'm afraid. I hadn't thought of that, murmured Margaret, while Helen said, our human nature appears to be the other way around. We employ people because they're unemployed. The boot man, for instance. And how does he fling the boots? Not well, confessed Margaret. There you are. Then do you really advise us to tell this youth? I advise nothing, he interrupted, glancing up and down the embankment in cases in discretion had been overheard. I oughtn't to have spoken, but I happen to know being more or less behind the scenes. The Porphyrian's a bad, bad concern. Now, don't say I said so. It's outside the tariff ring. Certainly I won't say, in fact, I don't know what that means. I thought an insurance company never smashed, was Helen's contribution. Don't the others always run in and save them? You're thinking of reinsurance, said Mr. Wilcox mildly. It's exactly there that the Porphyrian is weak. It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit by a long series of small fires, and it hasn't been able to reinsure. I'm afraid that public companies don't save one another for love. Human nature, I suppose, quoted Helen, and he laughed and agreed that it was. When Margaret said that she supposed that clerks, like everyone else, found it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he replied, yes, extremely, and rose to rejoin his friends. He knew by his own office, seldom a vacant post and hundreds of applicants for it, at present no vacant post. And how's Howard's Inn looking? Said Margaret, wishing to change the subject before they parted, Mr. Wilcox was a little apt to think that one wanted to get something out of him. It's let. Really? And are you wandering homeless and long-haired Chelsea? How strange are the ways of fate? No, it's let unfurnished, we've moved. Why I thought of you both is anchored there forever. Evie never told me. I daresay when you met Evie, the thing wasn't settled. We only moved a week ago. Paul has rather a feeling for the old place, and we held on for him to have his holiday there, but really, it is impossibly small, endless drawbacks. I forget whether you've been up to it. As far as the house, never. Well, Howard's Inn is one of those converted farms. They don't really do spend what you will on them. We messed away with the garage among all the witch-elm roots. Last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow and attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on alpine plants, but it didn't do. No, it didn't do. You remember, or your sister will remember, the farm with those abominable guinea fowls and the heads that that old woman would never cut properly so that it went all thin at the bottom, and inside the house, the beams, and the staircase through a door. Picture-esque enough, but not a place to live in. He glanced over the parapet cheerfully. Full tide. And the position wasn't right either. The neighborhood's getting suburban, either be in London or out of it, I say, so we've taken a house in Juicy Street close to Sloan Street and a place right down in Shropshire, Huntington Grange. Ever heard of Huntington? Do come and see us right away from everywhere up towards Wales. What a change, said Margaret, but the change was in her own voice which had become most sad. I can't imagine Howard's Inn or Hilton without you. Hilton isn't without us, he replied. Charles is there still. Still? Said Margaret, who'd not kept up with the Charleses. But I thought he was still at Epsom. They were furnishing that Christmas one Christmas. How everything alters. I used to admire Mrs. Charles from our windows very often. Wasn't it Epsom? Yes, but they moved 18 months ago. Charles, the good chap, his voice dropped. Thought I should be lonely. I didn't want him to move, but he would and took a house at the other end of Hilton down by the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. They're all there, a very jolly party. He and she and the two grandchildren. I manage other people's affairs so much better than they manage them themselves, said Margaret, as they shook hands. When you moved out of Howard's Inn, I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I should have kept so remarkable a place in the family. So it is, he replied. I haven't sold it and don't mean to. No, but none of you were there. Oh, we've got a splendid tenant. Hammer Bryce, an invalid. If Charles ever wanted it, but he won't. Dolly is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, we've all decided against Howard's Inn. We like it in a way, but now we feel that it is neither one thing nor the other. One must have one thing or the other. And some people are lucky enough to have both. You're doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congratulations. And mine, said Helen. Do remind Evee to come see us, to Wickham Place. We shan't be there very long either. You too on the move? Next September, Margaret sighed. Everyone moving, goodbye. The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leaned over the parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgotten his wife, Helen, her lover. She herself was probably forgetting. Everyone moving. Is it worthwhile attempting the past when there is this continual flux, even in the hearts of men? Helen roused her by saying, what a prosperous Bulgarian, Mr. Wilcox's crown. I have very little use for him in these days. However, he did tell us about the Porphyrian. Let us write to Mr. Bask as soon as ever we get home and tell him to clear out of it once. Do. Yes, that's worth doing, let us. Let's ask him to tea. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 16. Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday, but he was right. The visit proved a conspicuous failure. Sugar, said Margaret. Cake, said Helen, the big cake or the little deadlies. I'm afraid you thought my letter rather odd, but we'll explain. We aren't odd, really, nor affected, really. We're overexpressive, that's all. As a lady's lapdog, Leonard did not excel. He was not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood there runs the very spirit of perciflage and of gracious repartee. His wit was the cockniz. It opened no doors into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by, the more a lady has to say, the better. Administered waggishly. Oh yes, she said. Ladies Brighton, yes I know, the darlings of regular sunbeams. Let me give you a plate. How do you like your work, interposed Margaret? He too was drawn up short. He would not have these women prying into his work. They were romance. And so was the room, to which he had at last penetrated with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls, and so were the very teacups with their delicate borders of wild strawberries, but he would not let romance interfere with his life. There is the devil to pay then. Oh, well enough, he answered. Your company is the Porphyrian, isn't it? Yes, that's so, becoming rather offended. It's funny how things get around. Why funny? asked Helen, who did not follow the working of his mind. It was written as large as life on your card, and considering we wrote you there, and that you replied on the stamped paper, would you call the Porphyrian one of the big insurance companies, pursued Margaret? It depends what you call big. I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern that offers a reasonably good career to its employees. I couldn't say. Some would tell you one thing, and others another, said the employee uneasily. For my own part, he shook his head. I only believe half I hear. Not that even, it's safer. Those clever ones come to the worst grief I've often noticed. Ah, you can't be too careful. He drank and wiped his moustache, which was going to be one of those moustaches that always droop into teacups, more bother than their worth, surely, and not fashionable, either. I quite agree, and that's why I was curious to know, is it a solid, well-established concern? Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance. And under these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrian was the Porphyrian of the advertisement, a giant in the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held in one hand a burning torch and pointed with the other to St. Paul's and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money was inscribed below and you drew your own conclusions. This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters to explain the regulations to new clients and re-explain them to old ones. The giant was of an impulsive morality, one knew that much. He would pay for Mrs. Munt's hearthrug with ostentatious haste. A large claim he would repudiate quietly and fight court by court. But his true fighting-weight, his antecedents, his amours with other members of the commercial pantheon, all these were as uncertain toward and remortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in the days of their decadence that a strong light beats into heaven. We were told the Porphyrians no go, and we wanted to tell you that's why we wrote. A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently re-insured, said Margaret. Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the Porphyrian. You can tell your friend, he said, that he's quite wrong. Oh, good! The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. Wrong, so to speak, he added. How, so to speak? I mean, I wouldn't say he's right altogether, but this was a blunder. Then he is right partly, said the elder woman, quick as lightning. Leonard replied that everyone was right partly if it came to that. Mr Bast, I don't understand business and I dare say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern right or wrong? Leonard sat back with the sigh. Our friend, who is also a businessman, was so positive he said before Christmas and advised you to clear out of it, concluded Helen, but I don't see why he should know better than you do. Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all, but a commercial training was too strong for him, nor could he say it was a bad thing for this would be giving it away, nor yet that it was good for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but the mischlagals still remained a composite Indian god whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. One can but see, he remarked, adding, as Ibsen says, things happen. He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away while the ladies with imperfect skill discussed the subject of re-insurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed, perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. Women comes and our prospects in avail. How much exactly have you and how much do you expect to have next June? And these were women with a theory who held that reticence about money matters is absurd and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away and Jackie and Squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, so you like Carlisle. And then the door opened and Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox, entered. Proceeded by two prancing puppies. Oh, the deers! Oh, Evie! How too impossibly sweet! screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. Little fellows round, said Mr. Wilcox. I bred him myself. Oh, really? Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies. I've got to be going now, said Leonard sharply. But play with puppies a little first. This is Ahab, that's Jezebel. Said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. I've got to be going. Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. Mr. Wilcox, Mr. B- really? Goodbye. Come again, said Helen, from the floor. Then Leonard scored your rose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly. No, I shan't. I knew it would be a failure. Most people would have let him go. A little mistake, we tried knowing another class. Impossible. But the Schlegers had never played with life. They had attempted friendship and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted. I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for? And suddenly the drawing room re-echoed to a vulgar row. You ask me why I turn on you? Yes. What do you want to have me here for? To help you, you silly boy, cried Helen. And don't shout. I don't want your patronage. I don't want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for? He turned to Mr. Wilcox. I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked? Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go? But Margaret ignored him. I'm connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these ladies, he drawled the word. I come and it's to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair? Highly unfair, said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie that her father was becoming dangerous. There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There. Not content with, pointing at Margaret, you can't deny it, his voice rose. He was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jackie. But as soon as I'm useful, it's a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him, cross-question him, pick his brains. Oh yes. Now take me on the whole. I'm a quiet fellow. I'm law-abiding. I don't wish any unpleasantness. But I... you, you... laughter from Evie, as a to rep our tea. You are the man who tried to walk by the pole star. More laughter. You saw the sunrise, laughter. You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all, away from books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home. I failed to see the connection, said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. So do I. There was a pause. You were that last Sunday, you were this today, Mr. Bast. And my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you. We also suppose you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity, which bores us. But because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine. But into yours, we thought. Haven't we all to struggle against life, scaly grayness, against pettiness, against thoughtfulness, against suspicion? I struggled by remembering my friends. Others I have known by remembering some place, some beloved place or tree. We thought you one of these. Of course, if there's been any misunderstanding, mumbled Leonard, all I can do is go. But I begged to state. He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. You were picking my brain for official information. I can prove it. I, he blew his nose and left them. Can I help you now? said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. May I have one quiet word with him in the hall? Helen go after him. Do anything, anything, to make the noodle understand. Helen hesitated. But really, said their visitor, ought she too? At once she went. He resumed. I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves. I didn't interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel. Absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it. But there are very few women who could have managed him. Oh yes, said Margaret, distractedly. Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me, cried Evie. Yes indeed, chuckled her father. All that part about mechanical cheerfulness. Oh, fine. I'm very sorry, said Margaret, collecting herself. He's a nice creature, really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you. Oh, I didn't mind. Then he changed his mood. He asked as if he might speak as an old friend, and permission given, said, oughtn't you really to be more careful? Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. Do you realise that it's all your fault? She said, you're responsible. I? This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrian. We warn him and look. Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. I hardly consider that a fair deduction, he said. Obviously unfair, said Margaret. I was only thinking how tangled things are. It's our fault, mostly, neither yours nor his. Not his? No. Miss Schlegel, you are too kind. Yes indeed, nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance, otherwise they forget themselves. Sad but true. They aren't our sort, and one must face the fact. Yes. Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman. I admit it willingly, said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself. Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. What did he suspect you of? Of wanting to make money out of him. Intolerable, brute. But how were you to benefit? Exactly, how indeed. Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of good will would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes. I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlagel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in. She turned to him frankly. Let me explain exactly why we like this man and want to see him again. It's your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him. I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting. He would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special in adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry. Oh, he's one of that writer sort. No, oh no, I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. Culture, horrible. We want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country. Some, she hesitated. Either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life's daily gray and to show that it is gray. If possible, one should have both. Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. Others he caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. Your mistake is this and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude that it is an unsuccessful life or, as you call it, gray? Because, one minute you know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and interests. Wife, children, snug little home. That's where we practical fellows, he smiled, are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let live and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite grant I look at the faces of the clerks in my office and observe them to be dull but I don't know what's going on beneath. So, by the way, with London I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don't say in your case but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent and socialism. She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining and she retreated to what she called her second line to the special facts of the case. His wife is an old bore, and she said simply, he never went home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone and she thought he was with us. With you? Yes, he be titted. He hasn't got the cosy home that you assumed he needs outside interests. Naughty young man, cried the girl. Naughty said Margaret who hated naughtiness more than sin when you're married, Miss Wilcox, won't you want outside interests? He has apparently got them, put in Mr Wilcox slyly. He was tramping in Surrey if you mean that, said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. Oh, I daresay. Miss Wilcox, he was. Hmm, for Mr Wilcox who thought the episode amusing, if risqué. With most ladies, he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret's reputation as an emancipated woman. He said so and about such a thing he wouldn't lie. They both began to laugh. That's where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, not about a thing of that sort. He shook his head. Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type. I said before, he isn't a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He's certain that our smug existence isn't all. He's vulgar and hysterical and bookish. But don't think that sums him up. There's manhood in him as well. Yes, that's what I'm trying to say. He's a real man. As she spoke their eyes met and it was as if Mr Wilcox's ladies fell. She saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly, she had touched his emotions. A woman and two men, they had formed the magic triangle of sex and the male was thrilled to jealousy in case the female was attracted by another male. Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the beasts. Be it so, one can bear that. Jealousy is the real shame. It is jealousy, not love, with the farmyard intolerably and calls up visions of two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed complacency down because she was civilised. Mr Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his defences and was again presenting a bastion to the world. Miss Schlegel, you're a pair of dear creatures but you really must be careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say? I forget. Surely he has some opinion. He laughs if I remember correctly. He's very clever, isn't he? said Evie, who had met and detested to be at Oxford. Yes, pretty well, but I wonder what Helen's doing. She's very young to undertake this sort of thing, said Mr Wilcox. Margaret went out into the landing. She heard no sound and Mr Bast's topper was missing from the hall. Helen, she called. Are you in the library? Are you in there? Yes, he's gone some time. Margaret went to her. Why, you're all alone, she said. Yes, it's all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature. Come back to the Wilcox's and tell me later. Mr W much concerned and slightly titillated. Oh, I've no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr Bast. He wanted to talk literature and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man and yet so worth pulling through. You make him extraordinarily. Well done, said Margaret, kissing her, but come into the drawing room now and don't talk about him to the Wilcox's. Make light of the whole thing. Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor. This hen at all events was fancy free. He's gone with my blessings, she cried, and now for puppies. As they drove away, Mr Wilcox said to his daughter, I'm really concerned at the way those girls go on. They are as clever as you make them, but unpractical. God bless me. One of these days they'll go too far. Girls like that oughtn't to live alone in London until they marry. They ought to have someone to look after them. We must look in more often. We're better than no one. You like them, don't you, Evie? Evie replied, Helen's right enough but I can't stand the toothy one and I shouldn't have called either of them girls. Evie had grown up handsome, dark-eyed with a glow of youth and a sunburn, built firmly and firm-lipped. She was the best the Wilcox could do in the way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and her father were the only things she loved, but the net of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an uncle of Mrs. Charles, and he was attracted to her. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster Chapter 17 The age of property holds bitter moments even for a proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture becomes ridiculous and Margaret now lay awake at night, wondering where, where on Earth they and all their belongings would be deposited in September next. Chairs, tables, pictures, books that had rumbled down to them through the generations must rumble forward again like a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give the final push and send toppling into the sea. But there were all their father's books. They never read them, but they were their fathers and must be kept. There was the marble top chiffonnier. Their mother had set store by it. They could not remember why. Round every knob and cushion in the house, sentiment gathered. A sentiment that was at times personal, but more often a faint party to the dead, a prolongation of rights that might have ended at the grave. It was absurd if you came to think of it. Helen and Tibbie came to think of it. Margaret was too busy with the house agents. The feudal ownership of land did bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of moveables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting to the civilisation of luggage and historians of the future will note how the middle classes accreted possessions without taking root in the earth, and may find in this the secret of their imaginative poverty. The Schlagels were certainly the poorer for the loss of Wiccan place. It had helped to balance their lives and almost to council them. Nor is their ground landlord spiritually the richer. He has built flats on its site. His motorcars grow swifter. His exposures of socialism more trenchant. But he has split the precious distillation of the years and no chemistry of his can give it back to society again. Margaret grew depressed. She was anxious to settle on a house before they left town to pay their annual visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit and wanted to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, was stable and this year she longed more than usual for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs that guard it on the north. But London thwarted her. In its atmosphere she could not concentrate. London only stimulates. It cannot sustain, and Margaret hurrying over its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a house she wanted in the past. She could not even break loose from culture and her time was wasted by concerts which it would be a sin to miss and invitations which she would never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate. She resolved that she could go nowhere and be at home to no one until she found a house and broke the resolution in half an hour. Once she had humorously lamented that she had never been to Simpson's restaurant in the Strand. Her note arrived from Miss Wilcox asking her to lunch there. Mr Cahill was coming and the three would have such a jolly chat and perhaps end up at the hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie and no desire to meet her fiance and she was surprised that Helen who had been far funnier about Simpson's had not been asked instead but the invitation touched her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox better than she supposed and declaring that she simply must she accepted. But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of athletic women her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement her voice was gruffer her manner more downright and she was inclined to patronise the more foolish virgin. Margaret was silly enough to be pained at this, depressed at her isolation she saw not only houses and furniture but the vessel of life slipping past her with people like Evie and Mr Cahill on board. There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us and one of them came to her at Simpson's in the strand as she trod the staircase narrow but carpeted thickly as she entered the eating room where saddles of mutton were being trundled up to expectant clergyman she had a strong if erroneous conviction of her own futility wished she had never come out of her backwater where nothing happened except art and literature and where no one ever got married or succeeded in remaining engaged then came a little surprise father might be of the party yes, father was with the smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet him and her feeling of loneliness vanished I thought I'd get round if I could said he, Evie told me of her little plan so I just slipped in and secured a table always secure a table first Evie, don't pretend you want to sit by your old father because you don't Miss Schlegel, come in my side out of pity my goodness, but you look tired been worrying round after your young clerks no, after houses said Margaret edging past him into the box I'm hungry, not tired I want to eat heaps that's good what will you have? fish pie said she with a glance at the menu fish pie? fancy coming for fish pie to Simpsons it's not a bit the thing to go for here go for something for me then said Margaret pulling off her gloves her spirits were rising and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously saddle of mutton said he after a profound reflection and cider to drink, that's the type of thing I like this place for a joke once in a way it is so thoroughly old English, don't you agree yes said Margaret who didn't the order was given the joint rolled up and the carver under Mr. Wilcox's direction cut the meat where it was succulent and piled their plates high Mr. Cahill insisted on Sirloin but admitted that he had made a mistake later on he and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the no I didn't, yes you did type, conversation which though fascinating to those who are engaged in it neither desires nor deserves the attention of others it's a golden rule to tip the carver tip everywhere's my motto perhaps it does make life more human then the fellows know one again especially in the east if you tip they remember you from years end to years end have you been in the east oh grease and the Levant I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus some military society of a sort there a few piasters properly distributed helped to keep one's memory green but you of course think this shockingly cynical how's your discussion society getting on any new utopias lately no I'm house hunting Mr. Wilcox as I've already told you once do you know of any houses afraid I don't well what's the point of being practical if you can't find two distressed females a house we merely want a small house with large rooms and plenty of them Evie I like that Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house agent for her what's that father I want a new home in September and someone must find it I can't Percy do you know of anything I can't say I do said Mr. Cahill how like you you're never any good never any good just listen to her never any good oh come well you aren't Miss Schlegel is he the torrent of their love having splashed these drops at Margaret swept away on its habitual course she sympathized with it now for a little comfort had restored her geniality speech and silence pleased her equally and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese her eyes surveyed the restaurant and admired its well calculated tributes to the solidity of our past though no more old English than the works of Kipling it had selected her reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the out-assemblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear right you are I'll cable out to Uganda this evening came from the table behind their emperor wants war well let him have it was the opinion of a clergyman she smiled at such incongruities next time she said to Mr. Wilcox you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Marzies with pleasure no you'd hate it she said pushing her glass towards him for some more cider it's all proteins and body buildings and people come up to you and beg your pardon but you have such a beautiful aura for what never heard of an aura oh happy happy man I scrub at mine for hours nor of an astral plane nor of a bird of astral planes and censured them just so luckily it was Helen's aura not mine and she had to chaperone it and do the politeness I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went funny experiences seem to come to you two girls no one's ever asked me about my what do you call it perhaps I've not got one you're bound to have one but it may be such a terrible colour I don't really believe in the supernatural and all that too difficult a question why's that Gruyer or Stilton Gruyer please better have Stilton Stilton because though I don't believe in auras and think theosophy's only a half way house yet there may be something in it all the same he concluded with a frown not even that it may be half way in the wrong direction saying that I don't believe in them he seemed unsatisfied and said so you wouldn't give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it I could said Margaret surprised that the point was of any importance to him indeed I will when I talked about scrubbing my aura I was only trying to be funny but why do you want this settled I don't know now Mr. Wilcox you do know yes I am, no you're not burst from the lovers opposite I was silent for a moment and then changed the subject how's your house much the same as when you honoured it last week I don't mean juicy street how's its end of course why of course can't you turn out your tenant and let it to us we're nearly demented let me think I wish I could help you but I thought you wanted to be in town one bit of advice fix your district then fix your price and then don't budge that's how I got both juicy street and on it and I said to myself I mean to be exactly here and I was and on it ends a place in a thousand but I do budge gentlemen seem to mesmerise houses cow them with an eye and up they come trembling ladies can't it's the houses that are mesmerising me I've no control over the saucy things houses are alive no I'm out of my depth he said and added didn't you talk rather like that to your office boy did I I mean I did more or less I talk the same way to everyone or try to yes I know and how much do you suppose that he understood of it that's his look out I don't believe in suiting my conversation to my company one can doubt this hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well enough but it's no more like the real thing than money is like food there's no nourishment in it you pass it to the lower classes and they pass it back to you and this you call social intercourse or mutual endeavour or mutual priggishness if it's anything our friends at Chelsea don't see this they say one ought to be at all costs intelligible and sacrifice lower classes interrupted Mr. Wilcox as it were thrusting his hand into her speech well you do admit that they are rich and poor that's something Margaret could not reply was he incredibly stupid or did he understand her better than she understood herself you do admit that if wealth was divided up equally in a few years there would be rich and poor again just the same the hard working man would come to the top the waste draw sink to the bottom everyone admits that your socialists don't my socialists do yours mate but I strongly suspect yours are being not socialists but nine pins which you have constructed for your own amusement I can't imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite so easily he would have resented this had she not been a woman but women may say anything it was one of his holiest beliefs and he only retorted with a gay smile I don't care you've made two damaging admissions and I'm heartily with you in both in time they finished lunch and Margaret who had excused herself from the hippodrome took her leave Evie had scarcely addressed her and she suspected that the entertainment had been planned by the father dancing out of their respective families towards a more intimate acquaintance it had begun long ago she had been his wife's friend and as such he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento it was pretty of him to have given her that vinaigrette and he had always preferred her to Helen, unlike most men but the advance had been astonishing lately they had done more in a week than in two years and were really beginning to know each other she did not forget his promise and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby as his chaperone he came and partook of bodybuilding dishes with humility next morning the Schlagels left for Swanage they had not succeeded in finding a new home End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for further information please visit LibriVox.org Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster Chapter 18 As they were seated at Aunt Julie's breakfast table at the bay parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay a letter came from Margaret and threw her into perturbation it was from Mr Wilcox it announced an important change to the land owing to Evee's marriage he had decided to give up his house in Ducey Street and was willing to let it on a yearly tenancy it was a business light letter and stated frankly what he would do for them and what he would not do also the rent if they approved Margaret was to come up at once the words were underlined as is necessary when dealing with women and to go over the house with him if they disapproved a wire would oblige as he should put it into the hands of an agent the letter perturbed because she was not sure what it meant if he liked her if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson's might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London and result in an offer of marriage she put it to herself as indelicately as possible in the hope that her brain would cry rubbish you're a self-conscious fool but her brain only tingled a little and was silent and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves and wondered whether the news would seem strange to the others as soon as she began speaking the sound of her own voice reassured her there could be nothing in it the replies also were typical and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished you needn't go though began her hostess I needn't but hadn't I better it's really getting rather serious we let chance after chance slip and the end of it is we bundled out bag and baggage into the street we don't know what we want that's the mischief with us no we have no real ties said Helen helping herself to toast should I go up to town today take the house if it's the least possible and then come down by the afternoon train tomorrow and start enjoying myself I should be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind but you won't do anything rash Margaret there's nothing rash to do who are the Wilcox's said Tibby the question that sounds silly but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it I don't manage the Wilcox's I don't see where they come in no more do I agreed Helen it's funny that we just don't lose sight of them out of all our hotel acquaintances Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck it's now over three years and we've drifted away from the far more interesting people in that time interesting people don't get one houses Meg if you start in your honest English vein I shall throw the treacle at you it's a better vein than the cosmopolitan said Margaret getting up now children which is it to be you know the juicy street house shall I say yes or shall I say no Tibby love which I'm specially anxious to pin you both it all depends what meaning you attach to the word posse it all depends on nothing of the sort say yes say no then Margaret spoke rather seriously I think she said that our race is degenerating we cannot settle even this little thing what will it be like when we have to settle a big one it will be as easy as eating returned Helen I was thinking of father how could he settle to leave Germany as he did when he had fought for it as a young man and all his feelings and friends were prussian how could he break loose with patriotism and begin aiming at something else it would have killed me when he was nearly 40 he could change countries and ideals and we at our age can't change houses it's humiliating your father may have been able to change countries said mrs. munt with asperity and that may or may not be a good thing but he could change houses no better than you can in fact much worse never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester I knew it cried Helen I told you so it's the little things one bungles at the big real ones are nothing when they come bungle my dear you are too little to recollect in fact you weren't there but the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for wick and plates was signed and Emily took train with baby who was Margaret then and the smaller luggage for London without so much as knowing where her new house would be from that house may be hard but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it Helen with her mouth full cried and that's the man who beat the Austrians and the Danes and the French and who beat the Germans that were inside himself and we're like him speak for yourself said to be remember that I am a cosmopolitan please Helen may be right of course she's right said Helen Helen might be right but she did not go up to London Margaret did that an interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends she could not believe that her father had ever felt the same her eyes had been troubling her lately so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape which she had seen but yesterday at Southampton she waved to Frida down to join them at Swanwich and Mrs. Mundt had calculated that their trains would cross but Frida was looking the other way and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old maidish how like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her she had once visited a spinster poor, silly and unattractive who's may near it was that every man who approached her fell in love how Margaret's heart had bled for the deluded thing the lectured, reasoned and in despair acquiesced I may have been deceived by the curate my dear but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me and has as a matter of fact it had always seemed to her that most hideous corner of old age yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself she felt certain that he was not the same as usual for one thing he took a fence at everything she said this is awfully kind of you she began but I'm afraid it's not going to do the house has not been built that suits the Schlager family what have you come up determined not to deal not exactly, not exactly in that case let's be starting she lingered to admire the motor which was new and a fairer creature than the vermillion giant that had borne Aunt Julie to her doom three years before presumably it's very beautiful before she said how do you like it Crane come let's be starting repeated her host how on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called Crane why I know Crane I've been for a drive with Evie once I know that you've got a parliament called Milton I know all sorts of things Evie he echoed in injured tones you won't see her she's gone out with Cahill it's no fun I can tell you being left so much alone I've got my work all day indeed a great deal too much of it but when I come home in the evening I tell you I can't stand the house in my absurd way I'm lonely too Margaret replied it's heartbreaking to leave one's old home I scarcely remember anything before we can place and Helen and Tibby were born there Helen says you too feel lonely horribly hello parliament's back Mr. Wilcox glanced at parliament contemptuously the more important ropes of life lay elsewhere yes they're talking again said he but you were going to say only some rubbish about furniture Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas just imagine it rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them your sister always likes her little joke she says yes my brother says no to juicy street it's no fun helping us Mr. Wilcox I assure you you are not as unpractical as you pretend I shall never believe it Margaret laughed but she was quite as unpractical she could not concentrate on details parliament the Thames the irresponsible chauffeur would flash into the field of house hunting and all demand some comment or response it is impossible to see modern life steadily and see it whole and she had chosen to see it whole Wilcox saw steadily he never bothered over the mysterious or the private the Thames might run inland from the sea the chauffeur might conceal all passion and philosophy behind his unhealthy skin they knew their own business and he knew his yet she liked being with him he was not a rebuke but a stimulus and banished morbidity some 20 years her senior he preserved a gift that she supposed herself to have already lost her power but its self confidence and optimism he was so sure that it was a very pleasant world his complexion was robust his hair had receded but not thin his thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy balls had an agreeable many sin them whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars some day in the millennium there may be no need for his type at present homage is due to it he is self superior and who possibly are at all events he responded to my telegram promptly he remarked oh even I know a good thing when I see it I'm glad you don't despise the goods of this world heavens no only idiots and prigs do that I'm glad very glad he repeated suddenly softening and turning to her as if the remark had pleased him there is so much can't talked in would be intellectual circles I'm glad you don't share it self denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character but I can't stand those people who run down comforts they have usually some axe to grind can you comforts are of two kind said Margaret who was keeping herself in hand those we can share with others like fire weather or music and those we can't food for instance it depends I mean reasonable comforts of course I think the but the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seem to exist on her account and she was surprised that Crane did not realize this and turn round idiot though she might be Wilcox was more, how should one put it, more psychological than usual? Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. I want to go over the whole house she announced when they arrived, as soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be tomorrow afternoon, I'll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibbie, and why you yes or no. Right, the dining room, and they began their survey. The dining room was big, but over furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince and relent and refrain, and achieved beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wallpaper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the Lord sat at meet among his thanes. Even the Bible, the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War, fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. Now the entrance hall. The entrance hall was paved. Here we fellow's smoke. We fellow's smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. Oh, jolly, said Margaret, sinking into one of them. You do like it, he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. It's all rubbish not making one self-comfortable, isn't it? Yes, semi-rubbish. Are those crookshanks? Gilraith. Shall we go on upstairs? Does all this furniture come from Howard's end? The Howard's End furniture has all gone to Onniton. Does, however, I'm concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking room? Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute, fifteen and a half. Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren't you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses? They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was solo and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it while their lords discussed life's realities below to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room looked thus at Howard's end? Just as this thought entered Margaret's brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world's great love scenes. Miss Schlegel, his voice was firm. I have had you up on false pretenses. I want to speak to you about a much more serious matter than a house. Margaret almost answered. I know. Could you be induced to share my—is it probable? Oh, Mr. Wilcox, she interrupted, holding the piano and averting her eyes. I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards, if I may. He began to stammer. Miss Schlegel, Margaret, you don't understand. Oh, yes, indeed, yes, said Margaret. I am asking you to be my wife. So deep already was her sympathy that when he said, I am asking you to be my wife, she had made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realized that the central radiance had been love. You aren't offended, Miss Schlegel. How could I be offended? There was a moment's pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him, as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back and hesitated with him. Good-bye, she continued. You will have a letter from me. I'm going back to Swanwich tomorrow. Thank you. Goodbye, and it's you, I thank. I may order the motor-round, won't I? That would be most kind. I wish I had written instead, ought I to have written. Not at all. There's just one question. She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered, and they parted. They parted without shaking hands. She had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest gray, yet she thrilled with happiness ere she reached her own house. Others had loved her in the past, if one may apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but those others had been ninnies, young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often loved, too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded, mere yearnings for the masculine, to be dismissed for what they were worth, with a smile. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously. As she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if her tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat, but I've been through this sort of thing before. She had never been through it. The big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. Oh, sir, this is so sudden, that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparations. She must examine more closely her own nature and his. She must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love scene. The central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said, Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him, as a matter of duty perhaps. England expects every man to open his heart once, but the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost, surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness.