Part 2 She found the younger generation of the Widgetts engaged in languid reminiscences, and all, as they expressed it, a “bit decayed. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. The Wastrel did not relish this. He could lose himself for hours at a time. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. I want him as my friend. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years.
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