Howards End by E. M. Forster Page B

my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy.
    Believe me,
Yours truly,
M. J. SCHLEGEL
    Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand:
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    DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL,
    You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad.
    RUTH WILCOX
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    Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the second floor.
    She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox’s bedroom.
    â€œOh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say.”
    Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands, combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution.
    â€œI knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot.”
    â€œHe sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa.”
    â€œI knew—I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed.”
    Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.
    â€œI am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so promptly.”
    â€œIt does matter,” cried Margaret. “I have been rude to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse.”
    â€œIndeed?”
    â€œShe has just gone to Germany.”
    â€œShe gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes, certainly, it is quite safe—safe, absolutely, now.”
    â€œYou’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. “How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t meet him again.”
    â€œI did think it best.”
    â€œNow why?”
    â€œThat’s a most difficult question,” said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. “I think you put it best in your letter—it was an instinct, which may be wrong.”
    â€œIt wasn’t that your son still—”
    â€œOh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see.”
    â€œThen what was it?”
    She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.”
    â€œIn other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but couldn’t live together. That’s dreadfully probable. I’m afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another.”
    â€œThese are indeed ‘other words,’ ” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister.”
    â€œAh, I have always been wanting to ask you. How did you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and