rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.

“It's a special collection — I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!”

“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch — ” from the upper regions.

“Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse” — it was always the horse, never the carriage. “Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte — How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”

Paganism is infectious —