She uttered a little ejaculative note of joy and rushed to the bed. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. 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. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. “What are you doing?” He cried. The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited. She looked at him curiously. There were two of them.
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