He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. The mighty concourse became for a moment 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. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. Never in this world! Let the hotel people take care of him; it's their affair.
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