But he reckoned without his host. “Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Tell him the truth, Annabel. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. "I was only commenting. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. 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.
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