"But Mrs. Toland and Miss Barbara are coming," she
submitted.
"And what of it?" Jim said meaningly. It was his turn to say the awkward
thing. "How are the nerves these days?" he asked quickly.
Colour flooded Julia's face.
"Much better, thank you! I gave the tonic up weeks ago. It was just
nerves," explained Julia, "a sort of breakdown after we came back from
Cloverdale! And I'm so much obliged to you!" she ended shyly.
"Oh, not at all, not at all!" Jim protested gruffly. An unmanageable
silence hung between them for a few seconds; then Julia, with a murmured
excuse, went to the extrication of Miss Pierce, now hopelessly involved
in a surge of swarming children, and Jim went on his way. He carried
with him a warm memory of the erect young figure in white, and the thick
twisted braid, set against a background of Christmas green. For Julia
the rest of the afternoon was enchanted; an enchantment subtly flavoured
with the odour of evergreen, and pierced by rapturous voices, and by the
glowing colours of the Christmas tree, and the slapping rain at the
window.
She and Miss Toland sat down, exhausted and well satisfied, at seven
o'clock, to a scrappy little supper in the littered dining-room: one
director had left chocolates, another violets; a child's soiled hair
ribbon, still tied, lay on the floor; the chairs were pushed about at
all angles.
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