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. The ordinary research paper, when it is not extravagant theorizing, is apt to be rather sawdusty in texture, and Ann Veronica was delighted to find the same easy and confident luminosity that distinguished his work for the general reader. All about her, hither and yon, lay the enticing Unknown. Rummage, my boy, do. You jumped, and I think that you left me. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. "No more, please! I am bewildered enough. Tomorrow, I shall carry you before Justice Walters, who'll take your information; and I've no doubt but Thames Darrell will be fully committed.
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