The Nutmeg Tree by Margery Sharp Page A

darling.”
    â€œI’ve no doubt there isn’t,” said Julia sharply. “Why don’t you suggest it to her?”
    â€œBecause—”
    â€œBecause you know she’d send you packing in double-quick time.”
    â€œNot at all,” corrected Bryan, with a sudden return to dignity. “Because, as I should have thought you’d know, a fellow feels very differently about a girl he’s going to marry and a girl he just wants to … have fun with. He feels—well, scrupulous.”
    Julia looked at him.
    â€œYou ought to have seen your face just now,” she said. “There wasn’t a scruple in sight.”
    The last word, this time, was hers.
    7
    She did not, however, get much pleasure from it. She was ruffled, put out, and more than ever convinced that she would soon have to make herself extremely unpopular. And popularity, to Julia, was the breath of life: she would rather shine at a coffee-stall than eat a good dinner unnoticed. “They’ll never understand,” thought Julia dismally. “They’ll just think I want to throw my weight about.” She sighed deeply. There was another thing—her weight! She was almost certain that her stays felt tighter than they did a week ago. They weren’t the sort that laced, either: they had a good stout zip-fastener, full strength.…
    It was thus in no cheerful frame of mind that Julia ascended the stone steps and met her hostess at the top. Mrs. Packett, however, looked pleased; she held a letter in her hand, and was evidently full of news.
    â€œSir William comes next week!” she said. “He’s Susan’s guardian, you know, and so charming!”
    â€œA man!” thought Julia.
    The black clouds of depression still enveloped her; but she perceived a slight rift.

Chapter 10
    1
    Every morning, just as Julia herself had done in that long-ago time at Barton, Susan arranged the flowers. But with her it was a labour of love; she picked not only the roses, but wild flowers as well, making what she called “tangles” of them—large, and to Julia’s eye rather straggling, bouquets that died almost the next day. Susan didn’t seem to mind: every morning she went up into the vine and picked more. Some of them were really pretty, thin sprays of forget-me-not with tiny flowers, and clover with big purple heads, and something tall and tough that had bright blue rosettes growing all down the stem. But Susan didn’t stop even there. She actually picked grass, and dead bits of twig.
    â€œI believe you like the tangles best,” said Julia once, in her astonishment.
    â€œYes,” agreed Susan. They were in the old garden-room, next door to the kitchen, where Susan kept her vases amongst the cobwebs and firewood. Bryan lounged in the doorway, idle as Julia: they had both expressed a wish to be of use, but so halfheartedly that even Susan’s good manners had permitted her to refuse.
    â€œWhy?” asked Julia.
    â€œBecause I can do so much more with them.”
    Julia looked at a mass of yellow roses triumphant in their cream jar.
    â€œThey don’t make half so much show as those …?”
    â€œNo,” admitted Susan. “But that —that’s just the roses themselves. I’ve done hardly anything. A tangle makes a show because of me .”
    Involuntarily Julia glanced towards the door; but if this explanation reached Bryan’s ears, he gave no sign. Or perhaps he didn’t realize how complete an explanation it was, or how particularly ominous to a young man who didn’t want to do anything special, but just knock around the world. Their conversation of the previous day was still fresh in Julia’s mind; but there was something else on her mind as well, and she did not, as she no doubt should have done, seize the opportunity of showing Bryan up.
    Instead, she said casually, “Aren’t we expecting another visitor? Your