” There was genuine interest in her eyes now. She had to explain about and pay off that forty pounds. 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. ’ ‘I do not need the rescue from such as you. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. He took about five minutes.
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