” “But what did father imagine?” “Of course he imagined! Any one would! ‘What has happened, Peter?’ I asked. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. ” He meditated. His lips parted in a rare smile. 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. The storm burst upon them in its fury. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces. That is not reasonable. She isn't used to cities. ’ ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Gerald said grimly. “I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now.
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