“I keep on telling you—Howards End. Miss Schlegels 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 at once to Father. He’s had a letter that’s too awful.”
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was—the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, “Schlegels again!” and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, “Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her.”
“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer inert. “Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?”