. 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. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. You would want me to be clean, if you gave me a thought, that is. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. The image of Major Alderley came into her mind.
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