He waited. 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’s got almost to like it. ’ She turned quickly away that her feelings might not be obvious to Lucy and her great-aunt. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out.
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