Aunt Anne, leaning back in her chair, her beautiful hands stretched out on the arms, a fine white shawl spread on her knees, asked Maggie about last night.
"I hope you enjoyed yourself, dear." "Very much, Aunt Anne. Uncle Mathew was very kind."
"What did you do?"
Maggie flushed. It was deceit and lies now all the time, and oh! how she hated lies! But she went on:
"Do you know, Aunt Anne, I think Uncle Mathew is so changed. He's younger and everything. He talked quite differently last night, about his business and all that he's doing. He's got his money in malt now, he says."
"Whose money?" asked Aunt Anne.
"His own, he says. I never knew he had any. But he says yes, it's in malt. It's not a nice hotel, though, where he lives."
"Not nice, dear?"
"No, I didn't like it. But it's only for men really of course."
"I think he'd better take you somewhere else next time. I'll speak to him. By the way, Maggie dear, Martha tells me you went out yesterday afternoon all alone—into the Strand. I think it would be better if you were to tell us."