Howards End

decided. What about Norfolk?"
    Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!
    "It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring."
    "If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for these alterations don’t suit me."
    "But, my dear, which would you rather have—alterations or rheumatism?"
    "I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive."
    "What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading? Theo—theo—how much?"
    "Theosophy."
    So Ducie Street was her first fate—a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich—a relic this of some prehistoric craving—was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen’s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry’s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re–reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power.

CHAPTER XXXII
    She was looking at plans one day in the following spring—they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build—when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.
    "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang—I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don’t know."
    "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here’s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?"
    Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said—Charles had said—the tax–collector had said—Charles had regretted not saying—and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst."
    "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.
    "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"
    "Of course not."
    "Charles has never seen the plans."
    "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor—no, that’s rather difficult. Try the elevation, We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky–line."
    "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment’s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.
    "I suppose the paper."
    "And WHICH way up is it?"
    "Just the ordinary way up. That’s the sky–line and the part that smells strongest is the sky."
    "Well, ask me another. Margaret—oh—what was I going to say? How’s Helen?"
    "Quite well."
    "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it’s awfully odd she doesn’t."
    "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal