Howards End

fortnight over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better to breed dogs."
    "Not at all. I don’t agree with your sister. There’s nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It would have helped me no end."
    "Quickness—?"
    "Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time I’ve missed scoring a point because the other man has had the gift of the gab and I haven’t. Oh, I believe in these discussions."
    The patronising tone, thought Margaret, came well enough from a man who was old enough to be their father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox had a charm. In times of sorrow or emotion his inadequacy had pained her, but it was pleasant to listen to him now, and to watch his thick brown moustache and high forehead confronting the stars. But Helen was nettled. The aim of their debates she implied was Truth.
    "Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you take," said he.
    Margaret laughed and said, "But this is going to be far better than the debate itself." Helen recovered herself and laughed too. "No, I won’t go on," she declared. "I’ll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox."
    "About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He’ll be more lenient to a special case."
    "But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette. It’s this. We’ve just come across a young fellow, who’s evidently very poor, and who seems interest—"
    "What’s his profession?"
    "Clerk."
    "What in?"
    "Do you remember, Margaret?"
    "Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company."
    "Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new hearth rug. He seems interesting, in some ways very, and one wishes one could help him. He is married to a wife whom he doesn’t seem to care for much. He likes books, and what one may roughly call adventure, and if he had a chance—But he is so poor. He lives a life where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got mixed up in our debate. He wasn’t the subject of it, but it seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a millionaire died, and desired to leave money to help such a man. How should he be helped? Should he be given three hundred pounds a year direct, which was Margaret’s plan? Most of them thought this would pauperise him. Should he and those like him be given free libraries? I said 'No!' He doesn’t want more books to read, but to read books rightly. My suggestion was he should be given something every year towards a summer holiday, but then there is his wife, and they said she would have to go too. Nothing seemed quite right! Now what do you think? Imagine that you were a millionaire, and wanted to help the poor. What would you do?"
    Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. "My dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan to the numerous excellent ones that have been already suggested. My only contribution is this: let your young friend clear out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company with all possible speed."
    "Why?" said Margaret.
    He lowered his voice. "This is between friends. It’ll be in the Receiver’s hands before Christmas. It’ll smash," he added, thinking that she had not understood.
    "Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he’ll have to get another place!"
    "WILL have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let him get one now."
    "Rather than wait, to make sure?"
    "Decidedly."
    "Why’s that?"
    Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice. "Naturally the man who’s in a situation when he applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position, that the man who isn’t. It looks as if he’s worth something. I know by myself—(this is letting you into the State secrets)—it affects an employer greatly. Human nature, I’m afraid."
    "I hadn’t thought of that," murmured Margaret, while Helen said, "Our human nature appears to be the other way round. We employ people because they’re unemployed. The boot man, for instance."
    "And how does he clean the boots?"
    "Not well," confessed Margaret.
    "There you are!"
    "Then do you really advise us to tell this youth—?"
    "I advise nothing," he interrupted, glancing up and down the Embankment, in case his indiscretion had been overheard. "I oughtn’t to have spoken—but I happen to know, being more or less behind the scenes. The Porphyrion’s a bad, bad