Are you going to have any apple-tart, Stanley? The apple-tart’s been very good lately—very good!” Part 7 At the end of dinner that evening Ann Veronica began: “Father!” Her father looked at her over his glasses and spoke with grave deliberation; “If there is anything you want to say to me,” he said, “you must say it in the study. 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 were only—les autres. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. .
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