Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. But how could you get—Who gave you credit? “You see,” said Ann Veronica, “my landlady kept on my room while I was in Holloway, and the fees for the College mounted up pretty considerably. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence.
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