reet ourselves in September? Or shall
we try to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That's rather an idea. They
are so unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious
management. Look here--yes. We'll do that. And we ourselves could live
at Howards End or Shropshire."

He blew out his cheeks. "Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head's
in a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End's impossible. I let
it to Hamar Bryce on a three years' agreement last March. Don't you
remember? Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away to rely on
entirely. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain
amount, but we must have a house within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie
Street has huge drawbacks. There's a mews behind."

Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of
the mews behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had
suppressed itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy
Wilcox manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is
imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street he remembered
the mews; when he tried to let he forgot it; and if any one had remarked
that the mews must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed,
and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatising the speaker
as academic. So does my grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the
quality of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they are the
best sultanas, and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It
is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret may do well to
be tender to it, considering all that the business mind has done for
England.

"Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The
smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite
has been taken by operatic people. Ducie Street's going down, it's my
private opinion."

"How sad! It's only a few years since they built those pretty houses."

"Shows things are moving. Good for trade."

"I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at
our worst--eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and
indifferent, streaming away--streaming, streaming for ever. That's why I
dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea--"

"High tide, yes."

"Hoy toid"--from the promenading youths.

"And these are the men to whom we give the vote," observed Mr. Wilcox,
omitting to add that they were also the men to whom