balance."

That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret's voice trembled
as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister's behaviour.
It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight
months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed
could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a
glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some
poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and
infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down
to poor Henry's account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too
infamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her
alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity
back in Helen's life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton;
the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on
the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had
kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared
that they might kiss again. Foolishly--the real danger was reaction.
Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was
scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there
for her as an old woman?

The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many
months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted
now. There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen's actions to be
governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or
woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The
blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It propagated
itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it was stronger than
sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or books. In one of her moods
Helen had confessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense.
Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And where there is
enjoyment of the past there may also be reaction--propagation at both
ends.

Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and
we without power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as
yet, intent on pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths within
himself. He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to the
specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten by a
steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to