ming to. But her
gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising,
scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated
in families over Evie's pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring,
in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and
then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively
from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other
birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture
which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks,
lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild
rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise
of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer
than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of
Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind.

The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret
was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such
a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached
Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no
reply, and the front door was locked.

"Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily."

Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the
curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall.
The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember
their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce
had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received
no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with
a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up
against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases.
Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the
first cry she succeeded.

"Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn't Mrs.
Wilcox come at last!"

"Have you got the key, auntie?"

"Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.

"Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox--"

Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together."

"Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat."

The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said
nervously.

"Miss Avery!" called Ma