Howards End

the incident to Dolly at tea–time. "None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery—she frightened you, didn’t she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the stairs with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character; some old maids do." He lit a cigarette. "It is their last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the place; but that’s Bryce’s business, not mine."
    "I wasn’t as foolish as you suggest," said Margaret "She only startled me, for the house had been silent so long."
    "Did you take her for a spook?" asked Dolly, for whom "spooks"' and "going to church" summarised the unseen.
    "Not exactly."
    "She really did frighten you," said Henry, who was far from discouraging timidity in females. "Poor Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated classes are so stupid."
    "Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?" Margaret asked, and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly’s drawing–room.
    "She’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. She assumed you’d know who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you’d seen them as you came in, that you’d lock up the house when you’d done, and would bring them on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once."
    "I shouldn’t have disliked it, perhaps."
    "Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present," said Dolly.
    Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined to learn a good deal.
    "But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his grandmother."
    "As usual, you’ve got the story wrong, my good Dorothea."
    "I meant great–grandmother—the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house. Weren’t both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?"
    Her father–in–law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was—for the following reason.
    "Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother—or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said `No.' Just imagine, if she’d said 'Yes,' she would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say, that’s rather good! 'Charlie’s Aunt’! I must chaff him about that this evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I 'm certain I’ve got it right now. Tom Howard—he was the last of them."
    "I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently.
    "I say! Howards End—Howards Ended!" Dolly. "I’m rather on the spot this evening, eh?"
    "I wish you’d ask whether Crane’s ended."
    "Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?"
    "Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go—Dolly’s a good little woman," he continued, "but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn’t live near her if you paid me."
    Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were plain as daylight now.
    Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water over Charles’s. The downpour had surely penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civilisation. "Curious mounds," said Henry, "but in with you now; another time." He had to be up in London by seven—if possible, by six–thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees, houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and she was at Wickham Place.
    Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor–cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realise England. She failed—visions do not come when we