“I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. They were hailed as celebrities, the three of them. 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. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. 126 Lucy drank them as the first rays of watery sunlight seeped through the mullioned windows, then put their husks in the claw-footed bathtub. Vee’s all right. The aunt laughed. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. Confidence in himself would strengthen him.
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