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 door was fastened by a catch and a latch with an inside key, to which at night a chain and two bolts were added. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. I bent over him. They were both dressed in every respect alike. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by his companion's intemperance.
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