The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. 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. “We’ve never known anyone who can play like you, Lucy. Permit me to introduce myself.
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