"Poor Jesus said he wanted you to do that and remember him. I did it and remembered Jesus." "I don't care. It was awful of you." "Much more awful to spoil Mamma's pleasure in God and Jesus. I did it to make her happy. Somebody had to go with her. You wouldn't, so I did ... It doesn't matter, Minky. Nothing matters except Mamma." "Truth matters. You'd die rather than lie or do anything dishonourable. Yet that was dishonourable." "I'd die rather than hurt Mamma ... If you make her unhappy, Minky, I shall hate you." V. "You can't go in that thing." They were going to the Sutcliffes' dance. Mamma hadn't told Mark she didn't like them. She wanted Mark to go to the dance. He had said Morfe was an awful hole and it wasn't good for you to live in it. The frock was black muslin, ironed out. Mamma's black net Indian scarf, dotted with little green and scarlet flowers, was drawn tight over her hips to hide the place that Catty had scorched with the iron. The heavy, brilliant, silk-embroidered ends, green and scarlet, hung down behind. She felt exquisitely light and slender. Mamma was shaking her head at Mark as he stared at you. "If you knew," he said, "what you look like ... That's the way the funny ladies dress in the bazaars--If you'd only take that awful thing off." "She can't take it off," Mamma said. "He's only teasing you." Funny ladies in the bazaars--Funny ladies in the bazaars. Bazaars were Indian shops ... Shop-girls ... Mark didn't mean shop-girls, though. You could tell that by his face and by Mamma's ... Was that what you really looked like? Or was he teasing? Perhaps you would tell by Mrs. Sutcliffe's face. Or by Mr. Sutcliffe's. Their faces were nicer than ever. You couldn't tell. They would never let you know if anything was wrong. Mrs. Sutcliffe said, "What a beautiful scarf you've got on, my dear." "It's Mamma's. She gave it me." She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and slenderness she had in it. Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr. Sutcliffe had wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn't give it him. She didn't want to dance with anybody after Mark. The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looking at you. The awful thing was she didn't know how to dance. Mark said you didn't have to know. It would be all right. Perhaps it would come, suddenly, when you heard the music. Supposing it came like skating, only after you had slithered a lot and tumbled down?