ou think she's
ill."

"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."

"I see," he said; "you have scruples."

"I suppose so."

"And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You
could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And
scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope;
but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--"

"I deny it's madness."

"You said just now--"

"It's madness when I say it, but not when you say it."

Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No
education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do
you want me to help you or not?"

"Not in that way."

"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--"

Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep
Howards End out of it," he said.

"Why, Charles?"

Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous
distance, a salutation had passed between them.

"The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don't
want any more mess."

"Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray who's 'we'?"

"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be
intruding."

By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her
husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter
to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair,
flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without
rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret
joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her
husband's dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but
could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in
attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen
would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to
lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden.

After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can't have this sort
of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind
for her."

Charles made no answer.

"Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?"

"No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon."

"How?"

"Don't ask me."

CHAPTER XXXV

One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true
ch