to you when Dolly--"

"Well, let's sit down."

"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit--down."

In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of
yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so
remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings
were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady
them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother's
handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: 'I
should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.' No date, no
signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the
question is--"

Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't legal. Houses ought to
be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely."

Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of
either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she
asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for
permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and
at once exclaimed: "Why, it's only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never
counts."

"We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox,
speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I
should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of
course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be
better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand."

Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The
question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates
and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The
question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all
away, whether she unduly--" He stopped.

"I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his
son's.

"Don't think what?"

"That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to
my mind the question is the--the invalid's condition at the time she
wrote."

"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don't admit it is
my mother's writing."

"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.

"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."

The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief
from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling
like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the