Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. 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. This way there will be not so much shame, and the vicomte will let them remain. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat.
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