“Everybody was larking about,” she put in, irrelevantly.
“You’re a disgrace,” continued Mrs. Weston, equally irrelevantly. Then as an afterthought: “Larking about with the boys, I daresay....”
Catherine did not reply.
“Well, you’re going to have a sound thrashing, that’s all, so you may as well know.... I’m about sick of your hooligan ways....”
Catherine went white. She was not afraid of a sound thrashing (they were not very fearsome things when you got used to them); it was the atmosphere of strained expectancy that was almost intolerable. She went whiter when her mother said:
“Have your supper first.... There’s some cold rice pudding....”
She ate in silence. Her mother was rushing in and out of the scullery preparing her father’s supper. In the middle of all this her father entered. He was tired and hoarse after the evening’s effort. He noticed the strained atmosphere. He said to Catherine:
“What’s the matter, Cathie?”
Mrs. Weston began to talk very fast and very harshly. Her voice was like the sudden rending of a strip of calico.
“She’s bin behaving herself badly again, that’s what’s amiss with her.... Larking about all this evening, she was. A regular disgrace. I tell you, I’m not going to put up with it. She’s going to get a sound thrashing to teach her to remember....”