"We must keep still. 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. “Really,” she said. ’ ‘Ah, that is good,’ sighed the lady. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. I'll have a peep at him, if I die for it," she muttered, as she went out. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. Besides, those things are deadly. ” The young man obeyed the summons. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition.
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