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. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. Folks don’t like ’em. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. She—She can snub him. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. I have arrested him in the King's name.
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