- sleeved, in perfect fashion for a European lady
going to a ball.
My mother surveyed her doubtfully.
"Is she dressed like a great lady?" the hanoum asked.
My mother pronounced her dressed like a lady.
The hanoum scrutinized my mother's countenance.
"Ask your mother why she does not dress you the same way?" she said.
The reply was that I was too little for such a gown.
"How old are you?" the hanoum inquired.
"I am nine"—and I should have added some remarks of my own about Nashan's dress, had not the memory of the results of recent observations of mine been still too fresh.
"My little Nashan is eleven. Ask your mother whether she will dress you like my Nashan the year after next."
"No," was the reply.
"Why not? Is it because you have not so much money as we have, and because your father is not so powerful as my lord?"
That was not the reason.
Again the hanoum scrutinized my mother, from her hat to her boots, and back again.
"Why is your mother dressed so sombrely? Is she a sad woman, or is her master a stingy man?"
