Howards End | Page 9

seemed a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of
observation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.
To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at
the corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his
forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to
command.
"In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front."
"In front if I may; then we can talk."
"But excuse me one moment--I can't think what they're doing with that
parcel." He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice:
"Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel
for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!"
Emerging, he said in quieter tones: "This station's abominably
organised; if I had my way, the whole lot of 'em should get the sack.
May I help you in?"
"This is very good of you," said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into a
luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded
with rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but
really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid
of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. "Very good indeed," she
repeated, adding: "It is just what I should have wished."
"Very good of you to say so," he replied, with a slight look of surprise,
which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt's attention. "I was just
tooling my father over to catch the down train."
"You see, we heard from Helen this morning."

Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and
performing other actions with which this story has no concern. The
great car began to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain
things, sprang agreeably up and down among the red cushions. "The
mater will be very glad to see you," he mumbled. "Hi! I say. Parcel.
Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!"
A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry
book in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these
ejaculations mingled: "Sign, must I? Why the--should I sign after all
this bother? Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I
report you to the station-master. My time's of value, though yours
mayn't be. Here"--here being a tip.
"Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt."
"Not at all, Mr. Wilcox."
"And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer
spin, but I have one or two commissions."
"I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to
talk things over with you."
As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret's
instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had
only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it
was not "uncivilised or wrong" to discuss it with the young man
himself, since chance had thrown them together.
A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on
gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter --life is a
mysterious business--looking after them with admiration.
The wind was in their faces down the station road, blowing the dust
into Mrs. Munt's eyes. But as soon as they turned into the Great North
Road she opened fire. "You can well imagine," she said, "that the news
was a great shock to us."

"What news?"
"Mr. Wilcox," she said frankly, "Margaret has told me everything
--everything. I have seen Helen's letter."
He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed on his work;
he was travelling as quickly as he dared down the High Street. But he
inclined his head in her direction, and said: "I beg your pardon; I didn't
catch."
"About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very exceptional person--I
am sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do--indeed,
all the Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but
it was a great shock."
They drew up opposite a draper's. Without replying, he turned round in
his seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in their
passage through the village. It was settling again, but not all into the
road from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated through the
open windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries of the
wayside gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the lungs of
the villagers. "I wonder when they'll learn wisdom and tar the roads,"
was his comment. Then a man ran out of the draper's with a roll of
oilcloth, and off they went again.
"Margaret could not