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. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. I've always been more or less music-mad. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. Here was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild beast;—there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned passionately upward.
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