‘Never mind that now. 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 a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. . “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left.
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