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. "You must have travelled a good deal to know so much about men. How provoking!" she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; "one never can find a thing when one wants it. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy. .
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