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. Brendon made a quick movement forward. Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. " "So I find, Rowland," replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp.
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