CHAPTER XVIII

er.She’sgoneoutwithCahill.It’snofun,Icantellyou,beingleftsomuchalone.I’vegotmyworkallday—indeed,agreatdealtoomuchofit—butwhenIcomehomeintheevening,Itellyou,Ican’tstandthehouse.” “Inmyabsurdway,I’mlonelytoo,”Margaretreplied.“It’sheart-breakingtoleaveone’soldhome.IscarcelyrememberanythingbeforeWickhamPlace,andHelenandTibbywerebornthere.Helensays—” “You,too,feellonely?” “Horribly.Hullo,Parliament’sback!” Mr.WilcoxglancedatParliamentcontemptuously.Themoreimportantropesoflifelayelsewhere.“Yes,theyaretalkingagain,”saidhe.“Butyouweregoingtosay—” “Onlysomerubbishaboutfurniture.Helensaysitaloneendureswhilemenandhousesperish,andthatintheendtheworldwillbeadesertofchairsandsofas—justimagineit!—rollingthroughinfinitywithnoonetosituponthem.” “Yoursisteralwayslikesherlittlejoke.” “Shesays‘Yes,’mybrothersays`No,’toDucieStreet.It’snofunhelpingus,Mr.Wilcox,Iassureyou.” “Youarenotasunpracticalasyoupretend.Ishallneverbelieveit.” Margaretlaughed.Butshewas—quiteasunpractical.Shecouldnotconcentrateondetails.Parliament,theThames,theirresponsivechauffeur,wouldflashintothefieldofhouse-hunting,andalldemandsomecommentorresponse.Itisimpossibletoseemodernlifesteadilyandseeitwhole,andshehadchosentoseeitwhole.Mr.Wilcoxsawsteadily.Heneverbotheredoverthemysteriousortheprivate.TheThamesmightruninlandfromthesea,thechauffeurmightconcealallpassionandphilosophybeneathhisunhealthyskin.Theyknewtheirownbusiness,andheknewhis. Yetshelikedbeingwithhim.Hewasnotarebuke,butastimulus,andbanishedmorbidity.Sometwentyyearshersenior,hepreservedagiftthatshesupposedherselftohavealreadylost—notyouth’screativepower,butitsself-confidenceandoptimism.Hewassosurethatitwasaverypleasantworld.Hiscomplexionwasrobust,hishairhadrecededbutnotthinned,thethickmoustacheandtheeyesthatHelenhadcomparedtobrandy-ballshadanagreeablemenaceinthem,whethertheywereturnedtowardstheslumsortowardsthestars.Someday—inthemillennium—theremaybenoneedforhistype.Atpresent,homageisduetoitfromthosewhothinkthemselvessuperior,andwhopossiblyare. “Atalleventsyourespondedtomytelegrampromptly,”heremarked. “Oh,evenIknowagoodthingwhenIseeit.” “I’mgladyoudon’tdespisethegoodsofthisworld.” “Heavens,no!Onlyidiotsandprigsdothat.” “Iamglad,veryglad,”herepeated,suddenlysofteningandturningtoher,asiftheremarkhadpleasedhim.“Thereissomuchcanttalkedinwould-beintellectualcircles.Iamgladyoudon’tshareit.Self-denialisallverywellasameansofstrengtheningthecharacter.ButIcan’tstandthosepeoplewhorundowncomforts.Theyhaveusuallysomeaxetogrind.Canyou?” “Comfortsareoftwokinds,”saidMargaret,whowaskeepingherselfinhand—“thosewecansharewithothers,likefire,weather,ormusicandthosewecan’t—food,food,forinstance.Itdepends.” “Imeanreasonablecomforts,ofcourse.Ishouldn’tliketothinkthatyou—”Hebentnearerthesentencediedunfinished.Margaret’sheadturnedverystupid,andtheinsideofitseemedtorevolvelikethebeaconinalighthouse.Hedidnotkissher,forthehourwashalf-pasttwelve,andthecarwaspassingbythestablesofBuckinghamPalac