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. To her satisfaction, the captain reddened a trifle. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. John, he was between me and the door. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean.
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