Free Howards End by E. M. Forster Page B

said Mrs. Munt suspiciously.
    "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one’s hand spread open on the table. I’m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed—from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six–hundred–pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don’t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what’s a joke up here is down there reality."
    "There they go—there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!—"
    "What is it?"
    "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes' flat."
    "Why shouldn’t she?"
    "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?"
    "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.
    "Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"
    "Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!"
    "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut.
    "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!"
    "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us."
    "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers."
    "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things."
    "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There’s a housemaid who won’t say yes but doesn’t say no."
    On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes' flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter, but—Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition—they could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting love. They were—she saw it clearly—Journalism; her father, with all his defects and wrong–headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly.
    The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the Wilcoxes' flat, and took the rather matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen.
    "Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you."
    "If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch.
    "The Ws' coming."
    "No, of course not."
    "Really?"
    "Really." Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox’s account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox