Howards End

had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would–be intellectual circles. I am glad you don’t share it. Self–denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can’t stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?"
    "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand—"those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can’t—food, food, for instance. It depends."
    "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn’t like to think that you—" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret’s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half–past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more—how should one put it?—more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision.
    "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to–morrow afternoon, I’ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you 'yes' or 'no.'"
    "Right. The dining–room." And they began their survey.
    The dining–room was big, but over–furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self–colour and self–denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall–paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest–hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible—the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War—fell into position. Such a room admitted loot.
    "Now the entrance–hall."
    The entrance–hall was paved.
    "Here we fellows smoke."
    We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor–car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them.
    "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It’s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn’t it?"
    "Ye—es. Semi–rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?"
    "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?"
    "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?"
    "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton."
    "Does—However, I’m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking–room?"
    "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half."
    "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?"
    They proceeded to the drawing–room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life’s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing–room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret’s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted.
    But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s great love scenes.
    "Miss Schlegel"—his voice was firm—"I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house."
    Margaret almost answered: "I know—"
    "Could you be induced to share my—is it probable—"
    "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may."
    He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel—Margaret you don’t understand."
    "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret.
    "I am asking you to be my wife."
    So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my