It never is. ” Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. 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. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates.
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