” “I suppose we ARE more free than we were?” said Ann Veronica, keeping the question general. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. 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. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair.
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