. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. 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. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and when my back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burns joss-sticks. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. . Another labyrinth in hell!" A smile broke over the trader's face.
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