‘I’ve had enough of this. Saviour's Stairs. 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. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. She was quite a beauty, all in white, and I can still see how much you resemble her. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. Get on, do.
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