Mrs. Clutton made a mouth at Pamela, and said:
“Shall we go and have a look at Nancy’s flowers in the walled garden?”
They skirted the shrubbery, with its clumps of yellow berberis and laurustinus gone shabby. There was a swing between the double-flowered cherry trees; Nancy still used it—on rare occasions when she read fiction. Usually she was honestly intent on improving her mind. A thick volume lay face downward on the seat. Mrs. Clutton picked it up, read the title, and dropped the book with a gesture of distaste.
“Nancy shouldn’t be allowed to read that woman’s stories.”
“She is very popular.”
“She ought to lecture—‘for men only.’ However, Nancy won’t hurt; she won’t understand—half. She is a little more than shallow; all surface, like a dish—not even a well-dish. Nancy and Isabel Crisp—you know Isabel is staying here now that Egbert is down from the hospital—will read the same book. One reads a bit, puts in a marker; the other takes up the book, reads on from the marker, then puts it in where she leaves off. That’s how they get through. I’m fond of Nancy—she’s so picturesquely idiotic. Of course, she will marry your brother?”
Pamela dropped the almond-scented stalk of plum-colored wallflower which she had pulled and was sticking in her belt.
“I—I don’t know. Oh, no! I wouldn’t let him marry Nancy.”
Mrs. Clutton looked at her suspiciously.
She said meaningly, “There is one man in the world for you—Jethro Jayne. A woman has only to concern herself about her husband. Of course your brother will be cruel to Nancy in his own particular fashion. Some kick with their feet, some lash with their tongues—I prefer the former; they kiss a bruise, but no man’s lips can reach a woman’s heart. After all, he’ll make a better husband than that prig, Egbert Turle; he’s going to marry Isabel Crisp. He’s insufferable. He would divide the animal kingdom into four groups: the lower animals, hospital cases, human beings, and ’Varsity men. He talks of nothing but dissecting-rooms. He alludes constantly to the ‘laity.’”