Howards End

Insurance Company. Thus much from his card. He had come "about the lady yesterday." Thus much from Annie, who had shown him into the dining–room.
    "Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It’s Mrs. Lanoline."
    Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like accusing presences. One guessed him as the third generation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civilisation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight, and the chest that might have broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very well—the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he would address her. She was only unprepared for an example of her own visiting–card.
    "You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?" said he, uneasily familiar.
    "No; I can’t say I do."
    "Well, that was how it happened, you see."
    "Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don’t remember."
    "It was a concert at the Queen’s Hall. I think you will recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven."
    "We hear the Fifth practically every time it’s done, so I’m not sure—do you remember, Helen?"
    "Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?"
    He thought not.
    "Then I don’t remember. That’s the only Beethoven I ever remember specially."
    "And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of course."
    "Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?"
    "Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel."
    "The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret.
    "Yes, the mistake arose—it was a mistake."
    "The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that she could find you?" she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one.
    "That’s so, calling too—a mistake."
    "Then why—?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm.
    "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I said to Mrs. Bast, 'I have to pay a call on some friends,' and Mrs. Bast said to me, 'Do go.' While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused you."
    "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don’t understand."
    An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn’t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister’s pressure, she said, "I still don’t understand. When did you say you paid this call?"
    "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid–stream.
    "This afternoon call."
    "In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"
    "S—Saturday."
    "Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit."
    "I don’t call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know what you mean, and it isn’t so."
    "Oh, don’t let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the abyss.
    "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!"
    "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. "The rest is naturally no concern of ours."
    "Yes, but I