Howards End

resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which germinated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face—the face does not signify. It was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was descending quicker than most women into the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it.
    "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa.
    Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!"
    "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," adding, "Oh, I am so tired."
    "You tired?"
    "Eh?"
    "I’m tired," said he, hanging the boa up.
    "Oh, Len, I am so tired."
    "I’ve been to that classical concert I told you about," said Leonard.
    "What’s that?"
    "I came back as soon as it was over."
    "Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky.
    "Not that I’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few remarks."
    "What, not Mr. Cunningham?"
    "Yes."
    "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham."
    "Yes. Mr. Cunningham."
    "I’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s."
    Her secret being at last given—to the world, and the name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was
"On the shelf,
On the shelf,
Boys, boys, I’m on the shelf,"
    she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.
    She sat down on Leonard’s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty–three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you’re reading?" and he said, "That’s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret’s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker."
    "Len—"
    "What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.
    "You do love me?"
    "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!"
    "But you do love me, Len, don’t you?"
    "Of course I do."
    A pause. The other remark was still due.
    "Len—"
    "Well? What is it?"
    "Len, you will make it all right?"
    "I can’t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I’ve promised to marry you when I’m of age, and that’s enough. My word’s my word. I’ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I’m twenty–one, and I can’t keep on being worried. I’ve worries enough. It isn’t likely I’d throw you over, let alone my word, when I’ve spent all this money. Besides, I’m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I’ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me."
    "When’s your birthday, Len?"
    "I’ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose."
    Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting–room, and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the gas–meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly.
    "It really is too bad when a fellow isn’t trusted. It makes one feel so wild, when I’ve pretended to the people here that you’re my wife—all right, all right, you SHALL be my wife—and I’ve bought you the ring to wear, and I’ve taken this flat furnished, and it’s far more than I can afford, and yet you aren’t content, and I’ve also not told the truth when I’ve written home." He lowered his voice. "He’d stop it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: "My brother’d stop it. I’m going