We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. 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. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. . He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims. We men are like children.
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