Howards End

vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe–struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.
    "I’m sure I don’t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret’s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered—why, I wondered whether—"
    "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening’s work that was on Chelsea Embankment."
    Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
    "I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn’t you?"
    "That’s right."
    "And went into a bank instead?"
    "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he’s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame."
    "I hate all this," Leonard muttered.
    "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it’s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake."
    "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.
    "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It’s too late to get to town, but you’ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you’ll be my guests there."
    "That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You’re very kind, and no doubt it’s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all."
    "It’s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can’t you see?"
    Then he said: "Jacky, let’s go. We’re more bother than we’re worth. We’re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There’s nothing we’re good enough to do."
    "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to—I, like my sister. You’re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it."
    But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I’ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that’s all. Poetry’s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you’ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it’s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It’s no good. It’s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor."
    He ceased. "Won’t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don’t know what to do. It isn’t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time—as I say, I don’t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."
    They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret–cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen.
    She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible."
    "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."
    "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I’ll do nothing. No doubt you’re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So choose."
    Helen looked at the sunset.
    "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them—in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we