I tell you, that girl would jump into the sea, rather. ” “You would marry a divorcée?” she asked. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. 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 wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. I call myself a man of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love meant—until I met your sister. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. You must be lonely here with only a few men friends.
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