"Friday

"Dearest Meg,

"I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter
than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw anything like her
steady unselfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not take
advantage of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you
can imagine. I do really feel that we are making friends. The fun of
it is that they think me a noodle, and say so--at least, Mr. Wilcox
does--and when that happens, and one doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure
test, isn't it? He says the most horrid things about woman's suffrage so
nicely, and when I said I believed in equality he just folded his arms
and gave me such a setting down as I've never had. Meg, shall we ever
learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I
couldn't point to a time when men had been equal, nor even to a time
when the wish to be equal had made them happier in other ways. I
couldn't say a word. I had just picked up the notion that equality is
good from some book--probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it's been
knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are really strong, Mr.
Wilcox did it without hurting me. On the other hand, I laugh at them for
catching hay fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us
out every day in the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house,
a wonderful road that was made by the Kings of Mercia--tennis--a cricket
match--bridge and at night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The whole
clan's here now--it's like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want
me to stop over Sunday--I suppose it won't matter if I do. Marvellous
weather and the views marvellous--views westward to the high ground.
Thank you for your letter. Burn this.

"Your affectionate

"HELEN."

"Howards End,

"Sunday.

"Dearest, dearest Meg,--I do not know what you will say: Paul and I are
in love--the younger son who only came here Wednesday."

CHAPTER II

Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over the
breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment's hush, and then the
flood-gates opened.

"I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more than you do. We
met--we only met the father and mother abroad last spring. I know so
little that I didn't even know their son's name. It's all so--" She
waved her hand and laughed a little.

"In that case it is far too sudden."

"Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?"

"But, Margaret, dea