It's so awful to think nothing in there has ever been broken before.
It had to be me.'
'Better you than the luckless Robert.'
'I wish it had been Robert.
Mrs Danvers will never forgive me.'
'Damn Mrs Danvers,' said Maxim, 'she's not God Almighty, is she?
I can't understand you.
What do you mean by saying you are afraid of her?'
'I did not mean afraid exactly. I don't see much of her.
It's not that. I can't really explain.'
'You do such extraordinary things,' said Maxim; 'fancy not getting hold of her when you broke the thing and saying,
"Here, Mrs Danvers, get this mended."
She'd understand that.
Instead of which you scrape up the remains in an envelope and hide 'em at the back of a drawer.
Just like a between-maid, as I said, and not the mistress of a house.'
'I am like a between-maid,' I said slowly, 'I know I am, in lots of ways: That's why I have so much in common with Clarice.
We are on the same sort of footing.
And that's why she likes me.
I went and saw her mother the other day.
And do you know what she said?
I asked her if she thought Clarice was happy with us, and she said,
"Oh, yes, Mrs de Winter. Clarice seems quite happy. She says, 'It's not like being with a lady, Mum, it's like being with one of ourselves.' " Do you suppose she meant it as a compliment or not?'
'God knows,' said Maxim; 'remembering Clarice's mother, I should take it as a direct insult.
Her cottage is generally a shambles and smells of boiled cabbage.
At one time she had nine children under eleven, and she herself used to patter about in that patch of garden with no shoes and a stocking round her head.
We nearly gave her notice to quit.
Why Clarice looks as neat and clean as she does I can't imagine.'
'She's been living with an aunt,' I said, feeling rather subdued.
'I know my flannel skirt has a dirty mark down the front, but I've never walked barefoot with a stocking round my head.'
I knew now why Clarice did not disdain my underclothes as Alice had done.
'Perhaps that's why I prefer calling on Clarice's mother to calling on people like the bishop's wife?' I went on.
'The bishop's wife never said I was like one of themselves.'
'If you wear that grubby skirt when you call on her I don't suppose she does,' said Maxim.
'Of course I didn't call on her in my old skirt, I wore a frock,' I said, 'and anyway I don't think much of people who just judge one by one's clothes.'
'I hardly think the bishop's wife cares twopence about clothes,' said Maxim, 'but she may have been rather surprised if you sat on the extreme edge of the chair and answered "Yes" and "No" like someone after a new job, which you did the only time we returned a call together.'
'I can't help being shy.'
'I know you can't, sweetheart.
But you don't make an effort to conquer it.'
'I think that's very unfair,' I said.
'I try every day, every time I go out or meet anyone new.
I'm always making efforts.
You don't understand.
It's all very well for you, you're used to that sort of thing.
I've not been brought up to it.'
'Rot,' said Maxim; 'it's not a question of bringing up, as you put it.
It's a matter of application.
You don't think I like calling on people, do you?
It bores me stiff.
But it has to be done, in this part of the world.'
'We're not talking about boredom,' I said; 'there's nothing to be afraid of in being bored.