But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. . People were passing in the street below.
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