Howards End

nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister."
    "Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How DID you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. Did Paul tell you?"
    "There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment’s pause.
    "Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a letter and you didn’t answer it."
    "I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. I knew it was opposite your house."
    "But it’s all right now?"
    "I think so."
    "You only think? You aren’t sure? I do love these little muddles tidied up?"
    "Oh yes, I’m sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath the clothes. "I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking."
    "That’s all right, and I’m sure, too."
    Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast–tray. They were interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal lines.
    "I must say good–bye now—you will be getting up."
    "No—please stop a little longer—I am taking a day in bed. Now and then I do."
    "I thought of you as one of the early risers."
    "At Howards End—yes; there is nothing to get up for in London."
    "Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalised Margaret. "When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention people."
    "The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of calls."
    "A wedding?"
    "Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married."
    "Indeed!"
    "We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband’s, and she most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make the acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet done."
    Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were.
    "Fussell. The father is in the Indian army—retired; the brother is in the army. The mother is dead."
    So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen’s account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox’s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and equal value. Only once had it quickened—when speaking of Howards End.
    "Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well; and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly’s photograph—in that double frame."
    "Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?"
    "Yes, quite."
    "Then I will stay. I’m enjoying this."
    Dolly’s photograph was now examined. It was signed "For dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she and Charles had settled that she should call me." Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time to hope that they would be happy.
    "They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon."
    "Lucky people!"
    "I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy."
    "Doesn’t he care for travelling?"
    "He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End."
    "I suppose you have a garage there?"
    "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, not far from the wych–elm, in what used to be the