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?”
In very polite words my mother conveyed to her that European women did not wear gaudy clothes in the streets. And little by little, with the help of a child’s interpretation, the woman from the remote district of Anatolia comprehended that her child was not dressed as a well-bred European child would be.
Tears of mortification came into her eyes.
“To think,” she wailed, “that I, who love my only baby so dearly and who have made for her a gown for every day of the month, should only have contrived to make her ridiculous!”
“Oh, mother!” cried Nashan, “am I then dressed like a saltimbanque, and not like a great lady?”
The mother folded her little one in her arms, kissed away her tears, and tried to comfort her.
“My little Rose Petal, thy mother has made a mistake. She begs thee, Seed of Glorious Roses, to forgive her. Say so, my little one; say that thou forgivest thy ignorant mother.”
“I love my mother!” the child sobbed. “I love my mother!”
“Then dry thy tears, my little Petal; for the lady here will help us.”