Howards End | Page 4

who is here) has hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite
cross when we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a
power of good. But you won't agree, and I'd better change the subject.
"This long letter is because I'm writing before breakfast. Oh, the
beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out
earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves
it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large
red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow,
whose corner to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress
over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the
hay that was cut yesterday-- I suppose for rabbits or something, as she
kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise
of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox
practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing
and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox
practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he has to stop too. Then Evie
comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is
tacked on to a green-gage-tree-- they put everything to use--and then
she says 'a-tissue,' and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears,
trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this
on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and sometimes
only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish tother from which, and
up to now I have always put that down as 'Meg's clever nonsense.' But
this morning, it really does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse
me enormously to watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.
"I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an

[omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't exactly a go-as-you-please
place, and if you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we
expected. Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a
great hedge of them over the lawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall
down in garlands, and nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see
ducks through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only
house near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified
love to Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep
you company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday.
"HELEN."
Howards End 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: