"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.