Howards End

a perfect evening—"
    "The Alexandrina isn’t bad—"
    "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.
    "It’s off Curzon Street."
    "Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street."
    Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s bathing–shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour–maid was preceding them.
    "Who are those people?" she asked.
    "They’re callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It’s too late for callers."
    "Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents."
    "I’m not at home yet to townees."
    "Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."
    He thanked her.
    Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen—Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days.
    "What is it?" she called. "Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?"
    Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward furiously.
    "They’re starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"
    "Who? Why have you come?"
    "The Basts."
    "Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"
    "He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you’ll tell me it’s the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train."
    "Helen, are you mad?"
    "Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve brought them. I’ll stand injustice no longer. I’ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we’re too slack to do ourselves."
    "Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, Helen?"
    Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said.
    "Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won’t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie’s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you’ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look"—she indicated the house—"servants, people out of the windows. They think it’s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, 'Oh no, it’s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers–on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.'"
    "Kindly take back that word 'hangers–on,'" said Helen, ominously calm.
    "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you’ve brought them here, or why you’re here yourself."
    "It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."
    Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry.
    "He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him."
    "Yes, to–morrow."
    "I knew it was our last chance."
    "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?"
    "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.
    Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn’t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed–sitting–room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and