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. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. So far the thing was acceptable enough. ‘Aye, that she was. “If you think it worth while,” she answered doubtfully. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent.
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