To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. And you think I would marry you?’ ‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant. 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.
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