She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. 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. Take it, I tell you. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. ‘Melusine…Melusine.
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