Howards End

prevalent upon the Christmas–cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self–advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop–assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision.
    "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."
    "Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."
    "We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour—carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas–tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing–room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder–closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking–glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder–closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don’t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper."
    "You spoke of your 'next house,' Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?"
    "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must."
    "Have you been there long?"
    "All our lives."
    "You will be very sorry to leave it."
    "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father—" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards.
    "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are motoring.""Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!"
    Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox’s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted—so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I’ll wait. On second thoughts, I’ll wait. There’s plenty of time still, isn’t there, and I shall be able to get Evie’s opinion."
    They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she said, "But couldn’t you get it renewed?"
    "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret.
    "The lease, I mean."
    "Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind of you!"
    "Surely something could be done."
    "No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours."
    "But how horrible!"
    "Landlords are horrible."
    Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn’t right. I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s house—it oughtn’t to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than—Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civilisation be right, if people mayn’t die in the room where they were born? My dear, I am so sorry."
    Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to hysteria.
    "Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me."
    "I—Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. We shall easily find another."
    "So you think."
    "Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret, easing away from the subject. "I can’t say anything when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish I