An ancient smile lay on his lips. 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 heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. I get my driver's license tomorrow. Basically a kindly man but made cynical and derisive by sordid contacts, O'Higgins had almost forgotten that there was such a thing as unselfishness.
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