Howards End by E. M. Forster (best book recommendations .TXT) 📕

“I must say you’re a downright young woman,” he observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. “What a question to spring on a fellow!”

“Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want to tell it me?”

“I⁠—”

“That’s all right”⁠—now she patted him⁠—“don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to Charles, how many to Paul?”

“The fact is, my dear, I hadn’t any intention of bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you know that⁠—well, that something must be done for the others, and you’ve understood me perfectly, so let’s pass on to the next point.”

“Yes, we’ve settled that,” said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic blunderings. “Go ahead; give away all you can, bearing in mind that I’ve a clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one.”

“We’ve none too much, I assure you; you’re marrying a poor man.”

“Helen wouldn’t agree with me here,” she continued. “Helen daren’t slang the rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There’s an odd notion, that I haven’t yet got hold of, running about at the back of her brain, that poverty is somehow ‘real.’ She dislikes all organisation, and probably confuses wealth with the technique of wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking wouldn’t bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relentless. One can’t deal in her high-handed manner with the world.”

“There’s this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write some letters. What’s to be done now about the house in Ducie Street?”

“Keep it on⁠—at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?”

She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, who were also taking the evening air, overheard her. “Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. Wilcox turned on them, and said sharply, “I say!” There was silence. “Take care I don’t report you to the police.” They moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated by peals of ungovernable laughter.

Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said: “Evie will probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything before then.”

“The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer.”

“How about September for us too?” he asked, rather dryly.

“Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That’s rather an idea. They are so unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. Look here⁠—yes. We’ll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or Shropshire.”

He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head’s in a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End’s impossible. I let it to Hamar Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March. Don’t you remember? Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house within easy reach of town. Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There’s a mews behind.”

Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he tried to let he forgot it; and if anyone had remarked that the mews must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatising the speaker as academic. So does my grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to it, considering all that the business mind has done for England.

“Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic people. Ducie Street’s going down, it’s my private opinion.”

“How sad! It’s only a few years since they built those pretty houses.”

“Shows things are moving. Good for trade.”

“I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst⁠—eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away⁠—streaming, streaming forever. That’s why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea⁠—”

“High tide, yes.”

“Hoy toid”⁠—from the promenading youths.

“And these are the men to whom we give the vote,” observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks⁠—work that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. “However, they have their own lives and interests. Let’s get on.”

He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her his letters would be late for the post. She implored him not to come, but he was obdurate.

“A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!”

“But I always do go about alone. Considering I’ve walked over the Apennines, it’s common sense. You will make me so angry. I don’t the least take it as a compliment.”

He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It isn’t meant as a compliment, my dear. I just won’t have you going about in the dark. Such people about too! It’s dangerous.”

“Can’t I look after myself? I do wish⁠—”

“Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.”

A younger woman might