relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and
pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with
relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose
foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but
those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation
plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men,
and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and
hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat
at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles
had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room
admitted loot.

"Now the entrance-hall."

The entrance-hall was paved.

"Here we fellows smoke."

We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car
had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them.

"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and
surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It's all rubbish not making
oneself comfortable. Isn't it?"

"Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?"

"Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?"

"Does all this furniture come from Howards End?"

"The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton."

"Does--However, I'm concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big
is this smoking-room?"

"Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half."

"Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren't you ever amused at the solemnity with
which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?"

They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was
sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing
to it, while their lords discussed life's realities below, to the
accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room at Howards End
looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret's brain, Mr. Wilcox
did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so
overcame her that she nearly fainted.

But the proposal was not to rank among the world's great love scenes.

"Miss Schlegel"--his voice was firm--"I have had you up on false
pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a
house."

Margaret almost answered: "I know--"

"Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--"

"Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting
her eyes. "I see,