"I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and
very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your
years. But--you won't be offended? --frankly I feel you are
not up to this business. It requires an older person.
Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread
out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go
down to this house whose name I forget instead of you."

"Aunt Juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"I must,
must go to Howards End myself. You don't exactly
understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering."

"I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense
confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to
make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going
to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty
you would. In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you would
offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your
impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them."

"I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing
that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask
as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn't worth a
straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries,
questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no."

Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely
brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of
both qualities--something best described as a profound