Catherine went white. She was not afraid of a sound thrashing (they were not very fearsome things when you got used to them); it was the atmosphere of strained expectancy that was almost intolerable. She went whiter when her mother said: “Have your supper first.... There’s some cold rice pudding....” She ate in silence. Her mother was rushing in and out of the scullery preparing her father’s supper. In the middle of all this her father entered. He was tired and hoarse after the evening’s effort. He noticed the strained atmosphere. He said to Catherine: “What’s the matter, Cathie?” Mrs. Weston began to talk very fast and very harshly. Her voice was like the sudden rending of a strip of calico. “She’s bin behaving herself badly again, that’s what’s amiss with her.... Larking about all this evening, she was. A regular disgrace. I tell you, I’m not going to put up with it. She’s going to get a sound thrashing to teach her to remember....” Simultaneously Mrs. Weston planked down a plate of greens and vegetables in front of her husband. He attacked them nervously. “It’s not good enough,” he said, after a pause, with the air of being vaguely reproachful against nobody in particular, “I tell you it’s not good enough.... I don’t know why these things should happen. It’s not as if she was a little girl....” That was all he said. The sound thrashing began soon afterwards. It was an extremely unscientific battery of slaps, in which Catherine dodged as best she could amongst the crowded furniture of the kitchen. Once she lurched against the table and knocked over the vinegar-bottle. “I wish you wouldn’t ...” began Mr. Weston, and then stopped and continued eating. After some moments of this gymnastic display both parties were hot and flushed with exertion, and the finale began when Mrs. Weston opened the door of the lobby and manœuvred Catherine out of the kitchen. “Off you go,” she said. “Straight to bed ... str-h-aight to b-bed....” The chase proceeded upstairs. Mrs. Weston’s stertorous breathing and heavy footfalls were the most conspicuous sounds.... A few seconds afterwards a loud banging of an upstairs door announced that hostilities were over. In her tiny back bedroom Catherine sat down on a chair for breath. She was not physically hurt; in her “larking about” with boys and girls of her own age she had often paused for breath like this, and at such times there had been joy in her heart even when there had been pain in her body. But now she was conscious only of profound indignity. Her father’s vague protest echoed in her memory: “It’s not as if she were a little girl....”