Howards End

all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one.
    In this spirit she promised to marry him.
    He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring.
    They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn’t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger.
    For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can’t be ten days ago."
    "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!"
    "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?"
    "I don’t know about that; I shouldn’t like to say."
    "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me."
    But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.
    "I didn’t think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing–room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it’s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is—how shall I put it?—a full–blown affair, a hind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal—"
    "By the way—"
    "Oh, very well."
    "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably."
    "About Greece too."
    "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby’s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done."
    "I was telling him I have shares in a currant–farm near Calamata."
    "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can’t we go there for our honeymoon?"
    "What to do?"
    "To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous scenery?"
    "Moderately, but it’s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady."
    "Why not?"
    "No hotels."
    "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?"
    "I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again."
    She said more gravely: "You haven’t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?"
    "No."
    "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends."
    "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we’re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill."
    "Dolly’s uncle."
    "Exactly. The girl’s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands—and rightly—a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development."
    "Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding.
    "Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others."
    "Of course not," she began, and then gave a little cry. "you mean money. How stupid I am! Of course not!"
    Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. "Yes, Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all—just to you, just to them. I am determined that my children shall have me."
    "Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother justice!"
    "I am determined—and have already written to Charles to that effect—"
    "But how much have you got?"
    "What?"
    "How much have you a year? I’ve six hundred."
    "My income?"
    "Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that."
    "I must say