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He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. 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. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. "Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. And empty. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. It is to take place to-night.
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