"The devil!" ejaculated Jonathan. And you promised to tell me. 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 dress of the dwarfish Jew was not, however, favourable to this expedient. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked.
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