Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. 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. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. “I didn’t think you’d come. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly.
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