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. I’ll take over here. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. She kissed him on the bridge of his nose. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. “Here goes,” he said. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. He hesitated.
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