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. ” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. “I’ve broken off my engagement,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, and found her heart thumping in her neck. ’ Gerald controlled a quivering lip.
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