Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?"
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End."
"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put on the Stepney wheel."
"No, sir."
"Now, mind you don't forget, for I—Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur's sight he put his arm around her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention—it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life.
"But you haven't listened, Charles—"
"What's wrong?"
"I keep on telling you—Howards End. Miss Schlegel's got it."
"Got what?" asked Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?"
"Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty—"
"Look here, I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no morning for it either."
"I tell you—I keep on telling you—Miss Schlegel—she's got it—your mother's left it to her—and you've all got to move out!"
"Howards End?"
"Howards End!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery.
"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed with you. Charles"—she hit herself wildly—"come in
