Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce.
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