‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. "Poor fellow! I'm glad he has escaped. ‘Gerald, what have you been about? Dorothée tells me that you were flirting outrageously with Madame Valade on Monday night. 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.
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