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. ‘What was Leonardo to you?’ Melusine was instantly on the defensive. Oh, wait!’ She seized Jack’s arm as he was about to go out of the room. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. ’ His face changed, all the humour and tenderness leaving it in an instant.
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