While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage. 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. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. \"Good night, girls. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. "I'm not going to get rid of you just yet.
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