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. " Jack would not hazard a glance at Winifred; but, quitting the church, got into an adjoining meadow, and watched the party slowly ascending the road leading to Dollis Hill. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. This obstacle being removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his little charge with him. This time she was indeed beaten. ‘You see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be.
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