was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was
destined to learn a good deal.

"But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his
grandmother."

"As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dorothea."

"I meant great-grandmother--the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house.
Weren't both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a
farm?"

Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead
wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but
never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic
past. Dolly was--for the following reason.

"Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother--or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he
popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said `No.' Just imagine, if
she'd said 'Yes,' she would have been Charles's aunt. (Oh, I say,
that's rather good! 'Charlie's Aunt'! I must chaff him about that this
evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I 'm certain I've
got it right now. Tom Howard--he was the last of them."

"I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently.

"I say! Howards End--Howards Ended!" Dolly. "I'm rather on the spot this
evening, eh?"

"I wish you'd ask whether Crane's ended."

"Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?"

"Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go--Dolly's a good
little woman," he continued, "but a little of her goes a long way. I
couldn't live near her if you paid me."

Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox
could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They
had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the
white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was
impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton.
His objections to the house were plain as daylight now.

Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car
had been trickling muddy water over Charles's. The downpour had
surely penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless
civilisation. "Curious mounds," said Henry, "but in with you now;
another time." He had to be up in London by seven--if possible, by
six-thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees,
houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness,
and she was at Wickham Place.

Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her
all the year disappeared for a time. She