’ ‘Why must you?’ asked Gerald calmly. 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. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man. ‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned.
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