” “He certainly did not follow you out,” Brendon answered. ” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. I will do anything and everything I can to become your equal. ” She said. 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. After a while one began to talk. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. .
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