Hilda bent over the book with him.
"But I must stand up," she said, with sudden fire. "I can't recite sitting down."
They all cried "Bravo!" and made a circle for her. And she stood up.
The utterance of the first lines was a martyrdom for her. But after that she surrendered herself frankly to the mood of the poem and forgot to suffer shame, speaking in a loud, clear, dramatic voice which she accompanied by glances and even by gestures. After about thirty lines she stopped, and, regaining her ordinary senses, perceived that the entire family was staring at her with an extreme intentness.
"I can't do any more," she murmured weakly, and dropped on to the sofa.
Everybody clapped very heartily.
"It's wonderful!" said Janet in a low tone.
"I should just say it was!" said Tom seriously, and Hilda was saturated with delicious joy.
"You ought to go on the stage; that's what you ought to do!" said Charlie.
For a fraction of a second, Hilda dreamt of the stage, and then Mrs. Orgreave said softly, like a mother: