If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. 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. “Broddick is a heavy man,” he was saying, “and the main interest of the play was the embezzlement. “You are so inherently gallant, John, so pure of heart. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. ” “You will have no objection to his remaining here?” he asked.
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