“You do like it?” he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. “It’s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn’t it?”
“Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?”
“Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?”
“Does all this furniture come from Howards End?”
“The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton.”
“Does—However, I’m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?”
“Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half.”
“Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?”
They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualize the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life’s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing-room looked thus at Howards End? Just as this thought entered Margaret’s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted.
But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s great love scenes.