"You're a bold fellow, Jack," rejoined the blacksmith. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. 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. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. 235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection. He had not joined Orchestra in favor of Basketball.
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