Anna jumped into a waiting hansom. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. . Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. It took my breath away. 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 fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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