Her aunt was in the
hall.
"My dear Maggie, where have you been?" in a voice that was kind but
aghast.
"In the garden," said Maggie, hating her aunt.
"But it's pouring with rain! You're soaking! You must change at
once! Did you go out to find something?"
Maggie made no answer. She stood there, her face sulky and closed,
the water dripping from her. Afterwards, as she changed her clothes,
she reflected that there had been many occasions during these three
days when her aunt would have felt irritation with her had she known
her longer. She had always realised that she was careless, that when
she should be thinking of one thing she thought of another, that her
housekeeping and management of shops and servants had been irregular
and undisciplined, but until now she had not sharply surveyed her
weaknesses. Since the coming of her aunt she had been involved in a
perfect network of little blunders; she had gone out of the room
without shutting the door, had started into the village on an
errand, and then, when she was there, had forgotten what it was;
there had been holes in her stockings and rents in her blouses.
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