Howards End

sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn’t; yes, you did" type—conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.
    "It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere’s my motto."
    "Perhaps it does make life more human."
    "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year’s end to year’s end."
    "Have you been in the East?"
    "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one’s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How’s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?"
    "No, I’m house–hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I’ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?"
    "Afraid I don’t."
    "Well, what’s the point of being practical if you can’t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them."
    "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house–agent for her!"
    "What’s that, father?"
    "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can’t."
    "Percy, do you know of anything?"
    "I can’t say I do," said Mr. Cahill.
    "How like you! You’re never any good."
    "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!"
    "Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?"
    The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well–calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I’ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles’s."
    "With pleasure."
    "No, you’d hate it," she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It’s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura."
    "A what?"
    "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?"
    He had heard of astral planes, and censured them.
    "Just so. Luckily it was Helen’s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went."
    "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one’s ever asked me about my—what d’ye call it? Perhaps I’ve not got one."
    "You’re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it."
    "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?"
    "Too difficult a question."
    "Why’s that? Gruyere or Stilton?"
    "Gruyere, please."
    "Better have Stilton."
    "Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras, and think Theosophy’s only a halfway–house—"
    "—Yet there may be something in it all the same," he concluded, with a frown.
    "Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can’t explain. I don’t believe in all these fads, and yet I don’t like saying that I don’t believe in them."
    He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn’t give me your word that you DON’T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?"
    "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?"
    "I don’t know."
    "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know."
    "Yes, I am,""No, you’re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject.
    "How’s your house?"
    "Much the same as when you honoured it last week."
    "I