Howards End

could see myself as you see me—foreshortened into a backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming—wonderfully well read for my age, but incapable—"
    Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with me to Howards End now," she said, more vehemently than ever. "I want you to see it. You have never seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully."
    Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love it," she continued, "but it’s hardly the weather for such an expedition, and we ought to start when we’re fresh. Isn’t the house shut up, too?"
    She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed.
    "Might I come some other day?"
    Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back to Wickham Place, please!" was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed.
    "A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help."
    "Not at all."
    "It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind—the Christmas–cards especially. I do admire your choice."
    It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became annoyed.
    "My husband and Evie will be back the day after to–morrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping to–day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their tour short, the weather is so bad, and the police–traps have been so bad—nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a careful chauffeur, and my husband feels it particularly hard that they should be treated like road–hogs."
    "Why?"
    "Well, naturally he—he isn’t a road–hog."
    "He was exceeding the speed–limit, I conclude. He must expect to suffer with the lower animals."
    Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they drove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the narrower streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine.
    No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and the lighted windows of the shops were thronged with customers. It was rather a darkening of the spirit which fell back upon itself, to find a more grievous darkness within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, but something throttled her. She felt petty and awkward, and her meditations on Christmas grew more cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is there a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The craving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined that blessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example of it in the hordes of purchasers? Or in herself? She had failed to respond to this invitation merely because it was a little queer and imaginative—she, whose birthright it was to nourish imagination! Better to have accepted, to have tired themselves a little by the journey, than coldly to reply, "Might I come some other day?" Her cynicism left her. There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would never ask her again.
    They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in after due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors closed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment The beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the muff; the long trailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable rarity was going up heavenward, like a specimen in a bottle. And into what a heaven—a vault as of hell, sooty black, from which soot descended!
    At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill–natured, but from babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of the day–school that he sometimes patronised. The account was interesting, and she had often pressed him for it before, but she could not attend now, for her mind was focussed on the invisible. She discerned that Mrs. Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had only one passion in life—her house—and that the moment was solemn when she invited a friend to share this passion with her. To answer "another day" was to answer as a fool. "Another day" will do for brick and mortar, but not for the Holy of Holies into which Howards End had been transfigured. Her own curiosity was slight. She had heard more than enough about it in the summer. The nine windows, the vine, and the wych–elm had no pleasant connections for her, and she would have preferred to spend the afternoon at a concert. But imagination triumphed. While her brother held forth she determined to go, at whatever