Howards End

also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course—Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me."
    As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement.
    "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You’ll never guess. A woman’s been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so."
    "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots.
    "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It’s no one we know. I said, 'Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband?' Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier."
    "Now, Helen, what did really happen?"
    "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began—very civilly. 'I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here.' No—how unjust one is. She said 'whom,' not 'what.' She got it perfectly. So I said, 'Name, please?' and she said, 'Lan, Miss,' and there we were."
    "Lan?"
    "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline."
    "But what an extraordinary—"
    "I said, 'My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.'"
    "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby.
    "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline’s a dear—she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon—and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn’t seem the same—no, no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the missing article."
    "But how on earth—"
    "Don’t begin how on earthing. 'I know what I know,' she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn’t, and then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining–room reeks of orris–root. We chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline’s a notty, notty man, and hasn’t no business to go on the lardy–da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember—bags I."
    "Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting down her work. "I’m not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn’t it?"
    "I don’t think so—she doesn’t really mind. The admirable creature isn’t capable of tragedy."
    "Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving to the window.
    "Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. Lanoline."
    "Was she pretty?"
    "Her figure may have been good once."
    The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house–hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as these.
    "Tibby and I have again been wondering where we’ll live next September," she said at last.
    "Tibby had better first wonder what he’ll do," retorted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they were going out to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had both decayed.

CHAPTER XIV
    The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of the Porphyrion Fire