Chapter: Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised
well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that
Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted
the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the
house gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked
up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the
mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as
far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches.

Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but
it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of
whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down
from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills,
thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect
from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she
would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a
rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish
had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of
her father's, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would
introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder
sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up
the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was
Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so
long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call,
she was content.

Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going
for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits.
She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that
the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their
contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be
found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while
the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the
garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three
people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders
and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted
to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would
benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took
a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not
bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and
the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found
the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as
milksops beat them, even on their own ground?

She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no
worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections
were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the
cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning,
dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked
round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the
shed, and was seen no more.

"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became
unintelligible.

"What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--"

"I can't hear."

"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"

Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would
be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a
petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the
other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed,
they sang, and the dog barked.

Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not
feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her
equipment.

Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just
then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.

Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was,
in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion
successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss
of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt
intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the
comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour
out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came
down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate
their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the
sideboard!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the
sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at
Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item,
never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting?
Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.

After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always
best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he
was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen
in town.

"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you
want?"

"Nothing."

"I was afraid something had gone wrong."

"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."

Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate.
She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his
without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help
him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the
more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would
set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair
weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that
its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each
parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude
the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow.
Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too
clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities,
as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon
him, she could respond.

"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't we walk to the
church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well
go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages."

"One can't have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells
wouldn't like it; they were awfully particular at Charles's wedding.
My--she--our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was
just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but the Colonel made
a great point of it."

"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then announced
that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the
wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though
clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house.
They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after room,
and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The
wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they come back from church,
and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated
and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they
were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower
wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory. A
little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind could not grasp
their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let me pass, please."
Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they
did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the band, who
had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already
drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with
cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham
Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was
throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon
the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the
cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at
the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We shall
never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn
into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again
jumped out of the car while it was moving.

Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small
business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment.
She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a
shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must
assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to
marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of
Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession.
Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new
sanctities among these hills.

After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding,
which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it.
Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space,
and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the
ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie's train, or cried.
In a few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was
signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous
curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been
married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time
on other business.

There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to
eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There
had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big
affair--not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes and
the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was
proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of
Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this
wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the
opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.

So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off,
yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards
the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to
her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that
he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was
praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could
with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing
to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons
and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving
towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off
well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I'm thankful I
lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only
hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all
remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and
she is not used to entertainments on a large scale."

"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better
to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley's, or even to go
to some hotel."

"You desire a hotel?"

"Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere with you. No doubt you want to
be married from your old home."

"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn't it
a perfect evening--"

"The Alexandrina isn't bad--"

"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke
that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with
parallels of grey.

"It's off Curzon Street."

"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."

Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the
river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the
bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's
bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when
they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of
people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.

"Who are those people?" she asked.

"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers."

"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding presents."

"I'm not at home yet to townees."

"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."

He thanked her.

Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were
unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility,
since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the
group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that
tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery
days.

"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?"

Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward
furiously.

"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"

"Who? Why have you come?"

"The Basts."

"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"

"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he's
done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you'll tell
me it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She
fainted in the train."

"Helen, are you mad?"

"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought them. I'll stand
injustice no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that lies under this
luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what
we're too slack to do ourselves."

"Have you actually brought two starving people from London to
Shropshire, Helen?"

Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated.
"There was a restaurant car on the train," she said.

"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now, begin from
the beginning. I won't have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes,
how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's
wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've a perverted
notion of philanthropy. Look"--she indicated the house--"servants,
people out of the windows. They think it's some vulgar scandal, and
I must explain, 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only two
hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable
reason.'"

"Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen, ominously calm.

"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to
avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why
you've brought them here, or why you're here yourself."

"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."

Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to
worry Henry.

"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him."

"Yes, to-morrow."

"I knew it was our last chance."

"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice.
"This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?"

"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.

Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and,
furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could
not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down
like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture,
provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet
her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when
the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she, half
mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and
their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and
Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew
cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive
scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice.
"Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she
was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.

"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to
Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past
in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered
whether--"

"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied
Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening's work
that was on Chelsea Embankment."

Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.

"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was
a bad concern, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"And went into a bank instead?"

"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after
he had been in a month, and now he's penniless, and I consider that we
and our informant are directly to blame."

"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.

"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing matters. You have
done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr.
Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a
very great mistake."

"I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.

"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false
position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late to get to
town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can
rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there."

"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You're very
kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me miserable. I
seem no good at all."

"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?"

Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than we're worth.
We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us,
and they never will. There's nothing we're good enough to do."

"We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally.
"We want to--I, like my sister. You're only down in your luck. Go to the
hotel, have a good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back the
bill, if you prefer it."

But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I shall never get
work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.
Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could do one
particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to
command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's
thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing,
if you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own
particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others.
Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall
over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always
will be rich and poor."

He ceased. "Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don't
know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have
been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don't know what
to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them
something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."

They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing.
Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne,
remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard
refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them
whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen.

She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's worth helping. I
agree that we are directly responsible."

"No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."

"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I'll
do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are entitled to say
a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So
choose."

Helen looked at the sunset.

"If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry
about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd
screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a
question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that
we can't give him, but possibly Henry can."

"It's his duty to," grumbled Helen.

"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters of
various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things
may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff,
because I want to make things a little better."

"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."

"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor creatures! but
they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven't nearly done with
you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over
it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it
over and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives."

She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical
matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a
pleasant smile.

"You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It's
all right now, but it was my sister."

"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the
invitation. I thought hated weddings."

"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've bundled her off to
the George."

Inherently hospitable, he protested.

"No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them."

"Let 'em all come."

"My dear Henry, did you see them?"

"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly."

"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and
salmon bunch?"

"What! are they out bean-feasting?"

"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you
about them."

She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how
tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of
woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later
on? Tell me now. No time like the present."

"Shall I?"

"If it isn't a long story."

"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of it, for I want
you to find the man some work in your office."

"What are his qualifications?"

"I don't know. He's a clerk."

"How old?"

"Twenty-five, perhaps."

"What's his name?"

"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met
at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful
meeting.

"Where was he before?"

"Dempster's Bank."

"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing.

"They reduced their staff."

"All right; I'll see him."

It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she
understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon,
when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't influence
her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself."
Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though
pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the
methods of the harem.

"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don't know whether
he's qualified."

"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a
precedent."

"No, of course--of course--"

"I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer."

"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a special case."

"Proteges always are."

She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of
complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf
between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And
she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as
they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their
warfare seems eternal perhaps the whole visible world rests on it,
and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was
reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.

"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be
starting."

On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts
as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing
the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has
been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset
may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his
joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were
stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare
between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and
as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the
orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest
for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended
the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having her share.

To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and
Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage
rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking
her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call
at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more
disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in
Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne
glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody.

"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.

"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I can't have her in
my garden in this state."

"Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going
to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque
conversations now.

Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the
twilight like a puff-ball.

"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply.

Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"

"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est
tout a fait different."

"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.

Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he
remarked.

"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"

"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts.

Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you are." She yawned.
"There now, I love you."

"Henry, I am awfully sorry."

"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared
he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded.

"To have brought this down on you."

"Pray don't apologise."

The voice continued.

"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever
seen you before?"

"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen? He's serving you
like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love 'em."

"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.

Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what it is all about,"
she said. "Let's come in."

But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his
whole life crumbling. "Don't you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow
me to congratulate you on the success of your plan."

"This is Helen's plan, not mine."

"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out.
I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was
necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man's past. I have the honour to
release you from your engagement."

Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as a
theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were
necessary--words unequivocal, undenied.

"So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself
from saying more.

"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the
hall.

"We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my
point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help
him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene.

"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.

"Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!"

The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's much to forgive."

He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval.
Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the
branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising
their future hostess, the guests were borne away.

Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?"

"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.

"When, please?"

"Why?"

"When, please?"

"Ten years ago."

She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs.
Wilcox's.

 The next morning, Margaret observes as the men of the party go for a swim, and is then summoned up to Evie's room to view the wedding dress. The women are all practically hysterical over the dress - they're ecstatically screaming and fussing over Evie, and are generally acting like stereotypical silly women. After breakfast, Margaret and Mr. Wilcox chat about the practicalities of the wedding. Margaret seems to really love him, albeit in a somewhat odd way. They go together through the house, looking for Burton, the butler. Margaret is trying to get used to Oniton, and to figure out the workings of the house. The wedding happens uneventfully, and everyone is pleased by everything. Evie and Percy leave on their honeymoon, and Margaret and Mr. Wilcox talk about their own wedding. Margaret doesn't want to talk about where they'll have their wedding; instead, she's interested in the evening, and looking out at Oniton. Some unexpected visitors show up: it's Helen, with the Basts in tow. She's furious, and she tells Margaret angrily that Leonard and Jacky are "starving," and that it's their fault. Margaret and Helen get into a fight: Margaret is justifiably angry that Helen has disrupted the wedding, and that she's embarrassed her sister in front of her new friends and family. Margaret confronts the Basts. Jacky is confused by what's going on, and Leonard is embarrassed. Helen explains her so-called logical reasons for this visit. She's convinced that it's the Schlegels' fault, and Mr. Wilcox's, for telling Leonard to leave the Porphyrion, and she wants Mr. Wilcox to fix the situation somehow. Margaret basically says that there's no hope - in her opinion, it's not anyone's fault, and there's nothing to be done. She offers to put the Basts up at the local hotel, and says that they can pay her back later. Leonard gets upset at this, saying that he'll never find another job, and that he and Jacky are destined for poverty - in the world they live in, if a lower-class man loses his job, he's lost for life. We're reminded again of the difference that being born with money makes. Margaret doesn't know how to respond to this; she invites the Basts to eat something at the wedding party while she figures things out. Margaret and Helen have a quick conference - the older sister convinces the younger to take the Basts to the hotel, and says that she will talk to Mr. Wilcox about it in her own way. Margaret goes back to Mr. Wilcox, who wants to know what's up. She explains that Helen's here, and he thinks that she's there for Evie's wedding. Margaret says that she's sent them off to the hotel, and that she'll explain later. This just makes Mr. Wilcox more curious, so Margaret explains right away about the Basts and their situation. Mr. Wilcox says that he'll do what he can for Leonard, but can't guarantee anything - and furthermore, in the future, he can't always have room for her proteges. Margaret is happy; as usual, she admires men and their capability. Despite Henry's flaws, she has confidence in him. Henry and Margaret stumble upon Jacky, and Margaret is disturbed by her - she feels like the woman represents a kind of infringement upon the world that she knows, even though Jacky isn't at all malicious. She's eating wedding cake and is obviously drunk. Mr. Wilcox sternly tries to send Jacky away - but she recognizes him, and calls him "Hen." They obviously know each other - but how? Margaret, trying to be discreet, tells Mr. Wilcox in French that Mr. Bast isn't at all like his wife. Jacky keeps trying to talk to Mr. Wilcox, and tells him that she loves him. Margaret is totally confused, for good reason. Mr. Wilcox is sure that this is a set-up, and that Margaret and Helen have been plotting against him. He admits to having had "a man's past," and says that Margaret is set free from their engagement. She's still confused and horrified. Margaret knows that life can be darker than she thinks...but she can't quite make herself comprehend the situation. Colonel Fussell comes along and Margaret and Henry pretend that everything's OK. As soon as he goes away, though, they have a confrontation. Margaret asks if Jacky was Henry's mistress: she was, ten years ago. Margaret goes away, deciding that the affair was the last Mrs. Wilcox's problem, not hers.

